


Ulfhedinn - Part 2

by KatWylder



Series: Úlfheðinn [2]
Category: BattleTech, BattleTech: MechWarrior, MechWarrior
Genre: Gen, Mecha, Post-Clan Invasion, Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-20
Updated: 2016-01-20
Packaged: 2018-05-02 14:54:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 39,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5252402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KatWylder/pseuds/KatWylder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 3049, the Clans descended upon the InnerSphere, devastating all who opposed their crusade. With superior technology and warriors genetically bred for combat, they cut a swath of destruction that has forever changed the galaxy. But the Battle of Tukayyid proved that they are not invincible.</p><p>    No one is more convinced of this than Sigurd, a MechWarrior who has devoted his life to making the Clans pay for their crimes. In the midst of his struggle, he finds himself trapped behind enemy lines and forced to make a deal for his life. But the Clans are not the only demons he must face...</p><p>Part 2 of 3</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the die is cast.

Part II

 

Chapter 14

 

Sigurd laced his fingers together over his chest as he laid back in bed. Staring up at the ceiling of his new quarters, he tried to fight sleep. His thoughts flickered aimlessly, but he often found them orbiting certain things slightly more than others. He thought about his meeting with Akela Kerensky tomorrow; he thought about the Clans, about words like bondsman, warrior and abtakha. He heard the latter often, now. It was the term for a bondsman who regained warrior status upon adoption into their new Clan. Most of the people in this unit addressed him by that alone, as if it were his name.

While he had been accepted into the Warrior Caste, he was as yet unranked. Without rank, he existed in a nebulous, in-between kind of social space: a warrior and yet not. For a people so accustomed to structure and order in every aspect of their lives, that was rather uncomfortable. Without rank, his status as abtakha was his only identifier.

It was clear that many of the trueborn warriors would prefer to address him as “freebirth,” but they did not want to gall their naturally-born comrades too much by using that slur. The freeborn Wolves certainly did not seem eager to claim him among their number. In fact, it was easy to tell who was vatbred and who was not, because the freeborn warriors kept twice as much distance from him.

He had learned that in most Clans, freeborns were, at best, considered second-class. At worst, they were met with outright hatred and systematically abused. Although the Wolves were historically among the more liberal Clans in this regard, Khan Ward's personal hatreds had put a new strain on trueborn-freeborn relations over the past years. The frees of this unit did not want to risk any of Sigurd's potential mistakes reflecting badly on them, or have their Crusader loyalties questioned by associating with an InnerSpherer. He could not really blame them for that feeling.

In some ways, he was even more isolated now than he had been as a bondsman. At least then, he had been mostly invisible. Nearly everywhere he went in the newly established barracks, Sigurd felt his skin crawl under the gaze of the other warriors. He never paid them any mind, but remained ever-aware that they were watching him. They had probably all seen him before, but now that he was part of the Warrior Caste, they took note. Wolves, he was learning, did not like strangers in their ranks.

One of the more uncomfortable encounters he had lately was just after finishing a shower. He had gone over to the sink to shave, when he noticed two pairs of sharp eyes staring at him in the mirror. Two MechWarriors stood at the opposite end of the room, ostensibly discussing the day's business while they dressed, but watched him during their entire conversation with a critical eye. She was sizing him up for a fight.

Only when he turned to face them and glared, did they finally leave him be.

Sigurd expected the only reason the rest of the warriors were not at his throat, was precisely because he was unranked. Until he had a proper place in the hierarchy, he was not worth their effort. As soon as he was Blooded, however, the challenges would probably roll in like a sandstorm.

Fortunately, Mira was keeping him sharp. When she had time between missions and other activities, she was happy to spar with him. Now that they were peers of a sort, she was less concerned about injuring him. The aches and bruises he racked up reflected that. The Elemental always quit short of really damaging him, but she was not a forgiving opponent. It would better prepare him, though, for anyone who actually wanted him dead.

His eyelids began to flutter closed, but he grasped at wakefulness a little longer. He felt very strongly now the presence of a monster. It was waiting for him, lurking in places where its tenuous form melted into the _eigengrau_ color of total darkness. Its voice began as a whisper in his mind and grew louder until, finally, his dreams consumed him.

 

* * * * *

 

“I have excellent news,” Akela declared, his amber eyes glimmering with excitement as Sigurd stepped into the office. “I have made all the arrangements for your Blooding.”

Sigurd closed the door behind himself, and felt his heart skip a beat. This first Trial of Position was the next logical step for him, following his adoption, but he had not expected to be given it so soon. The Wolves were still spread a little thin on equipment, and a proper Blooding required four 'Mechs, at the least.

“Thank you, Star Colonel.”

“You have one month from today to prepare for the Trial. I suggest you utilize this time to the fullest. Unlike some other Clans,” the commander elaborated, “we Wolves do not offer a second chance. If you fail—and survive—I will have to ship you off to another unit for paramilitary service or see to having you placed in another caste. Test-downs do not get 'Mechs _or_ much chance to pluck the Falcons' feathers.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I will not fail.”

Akela chuckled. “As you say. Now, it is customary for prospective warriors to participate in live-fire training prior to a Blooding or re-test after a long period out of action. We cannot spare the resources for that. Since I have seen your performance in battle for myself and your scores in the simulators have been satisfactory, I have decided instead to allow you some, ah, field training.”

“And what does that entail, precisely?”

“It means I can get some use out of you, finally. You have had only brief experience piloting an OmniMech, so you must be given an opportunity to acclimatize to the kind of machine you will use in the Blooding. Therefore, I will be sending you on some low-priority missions with another MechWarrior. Because you are unranked, you must treat your compatriot as your superior officer and follow their orders. You understand this, _quiaff?_ ”

He grinned broadly. “Aff, ovkhan.” This was what he had been waiting for.

“Oh, one last thing.” The Star Colonel leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “I am ordering you not to engage in any simulator training during this time.”

Sigurd knit his brow in confusion and sat down opposite Akela. “Why? If I may ask, that is, ovkhan.”

“After seeing the simulator logs and hearing Mira's accounts, I think you would run yourself ragged, if I let you.”

 _Better than the alternative. Better than just wasting away, like I did in the Combine._ He frowned. “I had a lot of time to kill, and a lot of catching up to do.”

“You also need to know when to let up. Tenacity is a good trait in a warrior, but overreaching only causes waste. I detest wastefulness.” He waved his hand to dismiss Sigurd. “Report back at 03:00 tomorrow for briefing, ahead of your first exercise. Until then, try to relax, for once.”

 

 

The day was bright and the weather had grown warm since this region of Traion entered into summer. Sigurd found a thick patch of grass and sat down, making himself comfortable. The ground beneath him shook as some of the unit's BattleMechs drilled in a field further out.

There was no weapons fire right now, but they moved with the precision of a hunt. One of the lighter chassis would dart forward, twist sharply towards its “target” and then break off to regroup with the others. Other light units repeated this maneuver, and sometimes added their own flourishes as they pretended to evade the guns of their adversaries. A heavy 'Mech waded into the middle of the fray, stalking after one of the opposing machines. The two circled each other, vying for the upper hand in what looked liked a mimed form of honor duel. Sometimes, he would spy figures leaping from one team's 'Mech to another: Elementals performing a mock swarm attack. They crawled over the machine as the target 'Mech did its best to throw them off. Then, having completed the maneuver, would return to their “taxi” for the next attack.

He took out the datapad he had borrowed from the equipment stores and began to read. Now that he was an abtakha, he was afforded more access to information. Today, he wanted to focus on the battleROMs from some of the Cluster's past engagements. It was important to familiarize himself with their tactics and workings, in order to better fit in with the unit.

 _Wolf Clan, Theta Galaxy,_ he repeated to himself, and looked down at his wrist where there once was a bondcord. A codex bracelet replaced it, which would carry a record of his career from his adoption until his death. _Thirteenth_ _Wolf Regulars. And my name is Sigurd Wolf._

Giving up his surname felt strange. He realized, though, that he had already given up that part of himself some time ago. He was Sigurd Wolf now, and for as long as it would take to get what he wanted.

He turned his attention back to the battle unfolding in the ROM. As he watched, it struck him as odd that there was no sign of Akela Kerensky in the materials to which he had access. There was no _Cougar_ among the Cluster's OmniMechs, though that was not entirely unexpected. (It was almost certainly _isorla_ , or the spoils of war, from an engagement with the Jade Falcons.) The only _Adder_ he saw, however, was clearly not piloted by Akela; the warrior's fighting style was very different. Akela did not seem to be behind the controls of any of the other 'Mechs, either. After a little consideration, Sigurd decided the Star Colonel must have transferred in relatively recently. He wondered what had happened to the woman whom Akela replaced as commanding officer.

The Thirteenth was veteran-rated before, and had been one of the few garrison Clusters to possess OmniMechs. The way they moved now, however, was different than what he saw in the ROMs. Their movements were more controlled, and their mock attacks on the field even more precise. He expected Akela had been working them hard. They were preparing for something more than mercs and militia hold-outs. They were preparing for war.

Sigurd rested his chin on his fist and continued watching the exercises. His research and the questions it brought faded from his thoughts when his attention shifted back to the 'Mechs. He felt a tingle over his scalp in the places where the neurohelmet would have touched his skin, and then a shiver all the way down his spine. It was as if his nerves were reaching out, searching for limbs that did not exist. That feeling came and went on occasion, but it always became more pronounced the longer he was out of a 'Mech. The simulators had indeed helped to stave it, but now that the prospect of piloting was so near, the ache had become fierce.

A little flash of recollection passed through his memory as his thoughts wandered, and Sigurd realized he was unconsciously mimicking his mother. She had often sat like this—in just the same position, in fact—as she stared out at the _Dervish_. It always seemed as if she was watching something, even when the only movement was sand carried by the wind. Perhaps she was reliving past memories.

For a long time, he had assumed she was thinking of his late father when she did that. Now, catching himself at the same behavior, Sigurd realized she was fixed on the BattleMech itself. Raisa Volsung had been a MechWarrior, once, when she was still Raisa Slate.

After marrying his father, however, that part of her life ended with finality. She rarely spoke of her military career, did so only in the vaguest terms, and never admitted an interest in returning to it. Even when she instructed Sigurd in his training, Raisa had never once demonstrated by piloting the _Dervish_ , herself. When he was young, he never thought to ask her about her career or why she left it. Now that it was far too late, he wished he had.

Most of all, he wondered how she could stand it. Sigurd smiled wanly. As a child, he had wanted nothing more than to be just like his father. It seemed funny then, that he turned out so much like his mother, instead. Perhaps that was simply how the dice fell.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which someone is being punished.

Chapter 15

 

Sigurd's first “field exercise” would be straightforward: search and destroy. Star Captain Lorna and her warriors had driven the mercenaries from this system, but the Traion militia was proving a little harder to oust. They were not a severe threat to the Wolves, and never had been, but rather a constant nuisance. In fact, their last BattleMechs had been eliminated during the very same engagement in which Sigurd was captured. What remained were infantry, which the Elementals continued to hunt down, along with scattered air and ground vehicles.

Today, Sigurd was tasked with assisting another MechWarrior in locating some vehicles that had been harassing civilians. A handful of tanks had made some hit-and-run attacks on the Clan's convoys, and stolen supplies. Strangely, they had also attacked native Traion civilians. No one was sure if it was intended as retaliation against those who cooperated with their Clan rulers, or if the militia remnants had simply made a mistake.

“We had a hard time locating the vehicles, until they attacked their fellow natives,” Akela explained, bringing up a holomap display of the mission area. “Afterward, some of the civilians came forward with information on their whereabouts.”

“They changed their minds about the milita pretty quickly,” Sigurd noted as he examined the map. The terrain was rough and while there were some open fields, there was plenty of forest to conceal the tanks. The search could take a long time, depending on the accuracy of the Wolves' intel and how aggressive the tankers were in engaging BattleMechs.

“The civilians would much rather be safe than 'free,'” the Star Colonel said. “They may not be happy with Clan rule, but they are growing accustomed to it. As long as they are provided for, they will eventually cease to care who governs them.”

Sigurd frowned a little. “You are not angry with the Traionites for failing to give up these rebels at the start, _quineg_ _?_ ” he mused.

“I am annoyed, yes. But angry? No.” Akela shook his head. “They are like children, who do not know what is good for them,” he replied. “Besides, what would I do? Punish all of them for the error of a few, and _prove_ we are monsters?”

“I suppose not.”

Akela smiled. “I have ensured that the militia's strikes on Traion citizens were highly publicized, and passed on assurances to the civilian authorities that the attacks will be dealt with harshly. Once you and your partner finish mopping up the tanks, things should start to settle down.”

“So, this mission is a ploy to change public opinion in the Clan's favor?”

“This is no ploy _,_ ” he replied, frowning. “While I would like more cooperation from the Traionites, that is tertiary. It is our duty as warriors to defend those under our protection. Despite what some members of this Cluster may think, we _do_ owe these people that much.”

 

* * * * *

 

Sigurd tugged at the collar of his cooling suit as he entered the DropShip hangar. Although he and the other warriors were now quartered in a building that had been claimed for Clan use, most of the equipment and supplies, and all of the 'Mechs remained in the ship. On his right, he spied Sosimo's _Shadow_ _Cat_. A brief pang of anger shot through his chest as he was reminded once more of Emma.

He quickly determined not to think about that. Distractions were a luxury he could not afford, today. It was critical that his entire focus be on the technical aspect of battle, so he could hone his gunnery and piloting. When his Blooding came, he did not want to feel out of his element, as he had in the _Archer_ or _Fire_ _M_ _oth_.

Sigurd made his way down the catwalk to the OmniMech which had been allotted to him. He had been surprised by the assignment, but was glad of it all the same. He looked the machine over with a critical eye, inspecting the work that had been done on it recently. It looked less ramshackle now that it had fresh armor and a new coat of paint, but he could tell that it was the very same _Stormcrow_ he had helped to retrieve.

A _Shadow_ _Cat_ would have been at the top of his wish list, but he could hardly say he was disappointed with this. The _Stormcrow_ was a workhorse 'Mech, which fell neatly in the middle of the spectrum of speed and firepower. The A-configuration's mix of beams and missiles was similar to the weapons array of his old _Dervish_ , too. Unlike the BattleMech he had inherited, however, the OmniMech did not jump. It was a bit quicker, though, so he felt he could live with the trade.

He clambered up the ladder to the _Stormcrow's_ cockpit and paused a moment as he noticed that the previous pilot's name had been painted over. A blank spot remained where his own might go, in one month's time. Sigurd locked the hatch behind himself, then slid down into the command couch and settled in, trying to get reasonably comfortable. He was still not used to the full-body cooling suit the Clans used. It felt bulky and unnatural, and he especially disliked the strange feeling of the mesh under-weave against his skin. He plugged the cooling suit into the jack beside his seat, pasted the medical monitor patches to his skin where the suit exposed his shoulders and the side of each thigh, and then strapped himself in with the harness. Lastly, he pulled on the neurohelmet, taking care to position it comfortably, and hit the start-up switch for the reactor.

Sigurd felt a familiar shiver travel down his spinal cord as the reactor thrummed to life. The neurohelmet began to draw upon his senses and fire immediately leapt in his veins. The device had been completely re-calibrated to match his specific brainwaves. Normally, there was a particular sensation that accompanied wearing an active neurohelmet: an omnipresent kind of noise or static. It was not merely heard, but also felt in one's neural pathways. Sigurd had been piloting long enough that he no longer noticed the white noise in his brain, but he immediately noticed its absence. There was no static from the _Stormcrow_ since it had been tuned. All he could feel was the sensation of the machine itself in his mind and a sudden alertness.

“Reactor: online,” the computer narrated in a lazy voice. “Weapons: online; configuration: locked. All systems: nominal. Proceed with voice identification.”

“Sigurd Wolf,” he replied to it, careful not to touch anything until the computer prompted him further.

“Input password.”

He reached over to the keyboard and quickly typed out the random character string Akela had given him.

“Processing... Accepted,” the computer announced, then fell silent.

Sigurd took his hands off the control stick and pressed down on the throttle as lightly as he could, taking a moment to test the Omni's responses. The _Stormcrow_ took a very slow, very cautious step forward. He immediately felt its weight on his nerves. It was not a sense that he was supporting something heavy, but rather a sense that he _was_ something heavy. He nudged the throttle, taking another step, and closed his eyes. It felt as though this machine was made for him, or perhaps he for it. He leaned on the control stick sharply, then throttled up and felt the _Stormcrow_ move beneath him. This was what he had missed—no, _needed_ —after becoming dispossessed.

After a short jaunt down the ramp, he came to a stop beside another OmniMech, a 60-ton _Mad_ _Dog_ , already on the field.

“Warrior Sigurd reporting, ovkhan,” he greeted his partner for the mission.

“ _You!_ ” hissed a man as the _Mad_ _Dog_ turned around completely to face him. He said nothing further, but Sigurd could hear faint noises of disgust over the comm as the other MechWarrior tried to hold his tongue. Had they not been on an open frequency, Sigurd would have expected to hear some choice epithets.

“MechWarrior Gunnar. How... good to see you,” he replied, trying to keep his voice even. He did not want to show his surprise and irritation.

There was another exasperated noise. “I should have known the Star Colonel would send you with me,” the warrior groused. There was a frustrated sigh. “Form up on me: echelon right. Your orders are to follow me, and shoot whatever I tell you to shoot. Think you can remember all of that, _freebirth?_ ”

 _Who is being punished, exactly? Him or me?_ he thought, indignantly. Aloud, he simply responded, “Aff, ovkhan.”

The _Mad_ _Dog_ turned back to face the road, and throttled up. Despite Gunnar's surly attitude, there was a surprising ease and naturalness in his OmniMech's movements. Sigurd fell into formation, matching the _Mad_ _Dog's_ speed, and watched it carefully. His opponents in the Blooding would almost certainly be volunteers, and he had a good idea who would be the first in line.

 

 

Gunnar set a brisk pace for them, from the DropShip all the way to the mission area. Neither one of them spoke to the other during the hour it took to reach their destination, which was no doubt for the best. Most of the way, they kept to an old dirt road that was no longer traveled. At one time, the road had lead to a little town in the crook of the mountains. The village had been abandoned after rock slide destroyed most of it some decades ago, but the Wolves' new intel suggested the tatters of the militia were hiding out in the ruins.

As they neared the foot of the mountains, the _Mad_ _Dog_ came to a stop. Gunnar twisted his 'Mech's torso back and forth, and seemed to be considering their next course of action. He turned and moved past Sigurd's _Stormcrow_ after a moment, heading for the field that lay south of the ruined town. It would be easier to go around the mountain and cut through the field towards the town than it would be to follow a straight line up the slope.

Sigurd followed, albeit reluctantly. He would have preferred to take the slope, where they could have the high ground and cover of the forests. Regardless, he kept in close formation with the _Mad_ _Dog_. He knew better than to offer unsolicited opinions.

As they made their way into the field, a large flock of birds suddenly flew from the trees half a kilometer away. Both men brought their 'Mechs to a halt and turned in that direction, looking for any sign of the militia vehicles breaking through the forest. They were surprised when a pair of VTOLs rose up above the canopy, instead.

“There was nothing about air units in the briefing,” Gunnar griped as he throttled up the _Mad_ _Dog_.

“Looks like a pair of Warrior H-7s,” Sigurd observed. “They are quick, but poorly-armed. Shall we take the high ground?”

“Aff.”

He was startled that Gunnar agreed, let alone without insult or protest. A little confused, but nonetheless content, he started moving his _Stormcrow_ up the slope. The helos, meanwhile, began their own ascent and headed towards the opposite side of the mountain. Once he had gained a little altitude, Sigurd noticed movement in the field at his three o'clock.

“Contact,” he reported as his radar picked up the enemies. “Two _Harassers_.”

“Aff, I see them, too.” Gunnar twisted to face them, and fired one of his large pulse lasers.

The tanks throttled up to avoid the hit, flying across the field, and turned to make a beeline for the OmniMechs. He fired his other large pulse laser, and the shot kicked up dirt right in front of a _Harasser_. It swerved to avoid being hit, and fishtailed. The tank's driver tried to regain control, but failed to correct before the vehicle slammed broadside into a stand of trees.

Gunnar gave a mean laugh. “Take care of that one, while the crew is stunned,” he instructed. He turned his _Mad_ _Dog_ to proceed up the mountain slope. “I will handle the VTOLs.”

“Aff, lead,” Sigurd replied. He picked his way through the trees that blocked his view of the field and stopped to line up his shot. With the _Harasser_ immobilized by its slide, he had no trouble spearing it with all four of his medium pulse lasers. Seeing the first vehicle reduced to scrap, its companion broke off and disappeared into a gully between the groves of trees.

Shells flew over the _Mad Dog_ _'s_ head as the H-7s took potshots at Gunnar's 'Mech. The Clansman returned fire, but the helos were quick to bank and avoid his lasers. Sigurd moved to join him.

“Target destroyed,” he reported. “I lost sight of the other _Harasser_.”

“Freebirth,” Gunnar muttered. “Go after the VTOLs. We will find the tank, later.”

Sigurd scowled at the _Mad_ _Dog's_ back as he moved up the mountain. He was not sure if that slur was directed at him, or simply a general expression of frustration. It annoyed him, all the same.

“Aff.”

The Warrior helicopters were playing a careful game of back-and-forth with Gunnar. His 'Mech's twin large pulse lasers were clearly worrying the pilots, and they hesitated to close in any longer than it took to get off a shot from their autocannons. The _Mad_ _Dog_ climbed up the slope, trying to clear the smaller peaks and get a good line of sight. Meanwhile, Sigurd slipped around past the other 'Mech up a jut of rock. He brought his crosshairs over the leftmost Warrior and waited for his LRMs to get a lock.

Just as his crosshairs turned red and the shrill ring of a lock sounded, one of the helos turned to face him, and spat a shell at his _Stormcrow_. A salvo of missiles leapt from the tubes in his 'Mech's right arm as he squeezed the trigger. A split second later, the autocannon ordnance hit him in the shoulder with a metallic crack. The _Stormcrow_ shuddered, but the damage was only a scratch.

Seeing the missiles swarming after them, the Warrior H-7s quickly pulled back. The LRMs swooped down at the helicopters, but fell short and crashed into the mountainside below dismally. Gunnar darted forward over the rocky ground and tried again to slash at the helicopters with his lasers. His shots missed as well, but served to startle their targets back further.

Sigurd sighed. He imagined the two of them looked a bit clownish, like little ground predators snapping at birds they could not hope to catch. More importantly, they were not making any progress. While Gunnar picked his way through the woods, Sigurd pressed eastward. The incline of the slope was shallow, and there was a natural terrace where he could perch his 'Mech.

“Where are you going?” Gunnar snapped, having noticed his departure. The _Mad_ _Dog_ sat amongst some trees, watching the helos, but they had moved outside the range of his lasers. The Clansman would have to descend the slope and move down into the open field to pursue.

Sigurd kept an eye on his radar, and tapped the comm. “Just trying to get a better look, MechWarrior.” The climb proved worthwhile. As soon as he reached the peak, he spied the missing tank moving through the fields. “Contact. Grid foxtrot-seven, moving northwest.”

Immediately, the _Mad_ _Dog_ swiveled around to face the area indicated, ignoring AC/2 fire from the helos, and blasted its pulse lasers through the intervening woods. Sigurd added his own lasers to the fray. As the _Harasser_ made a sharp turn between two thick groves of trees, their combined fire met its hull. Shrapnel sprayed from the hover tank and it dropped to the ground, skidding through the field on its belly.

Gunnar turned his attention back to the H-7s which were pestering him, while Sigurd moved to his side. Surprisingly, the helicopters were still holding position, just outside weapons range.

“Stravag freebirth cowards,” Gunnar growled. “They are taunting us.”

 _Why_ are _they still here?_ Sigurd wondered. The militia was probably quite desperate. They were losing support from the very people they had hoped to liberate, the Clan was winnowing their numbers and, unlike the mercenaries, they had nowhere to run. Even under such pressures, it seemed bizarre that the helicopters were not withdrawing. There was no way he and Gunnar could catch them, if they fled. His questions were answered by a bleating alarm in his cockpit.

Sigurd turned the _Stormcrow_ hard, and shoved through the nearby trees. “They are spotting!” A flurry of LRMs pounded into the dirt where he had been standing moments ago, and still more missiles clawed their way through the woods. Bark and shrapnel sprayed against his armor, and a couple of the warheads made it through the forest canopy, impacting his right torso.

The _Mad_ _Dog_ sprinted for cover but found itself pelted by missiles. This salvo had come from almost the opposite direction of the first. Sigurd watched as the _Mad_ _Dog_ stumbled, and missiles slammed into its side. Gunnar muscled his way into the woods as more LRMs rained down.

“Clever little _freebirths._ ” He gave an exasperated chuckle. “Open fire on the VTOLs. I need a distraction.” The _Mad_ _Dog_ disappeared deeper into the woods.

“Aff.” Sigurd's medium pulse lasers could not reach the H-7s, but they might be within range of his LRMs. He crept back through the path the militia's ordnance had cleared through the trees, and peeked out to find the helos. They had moved in a little closer than they were before, in order to see what had become of the Clan 'Mechs. Sigurd felt the muscles in his legs tense, as if he was preparing to sprint on foot, and lined his _Stormcrow_ up with the opening in the woods. The Warrior H-7s passed into view, and he slammed the throttle to maximum.

His targeting reticule turned yellow, but he did not wait for a complete lock. The helos would be out of range by the time he got one. His missiles screamed towards the militia helos and, predictably, missed as the aircraft retreated. He torso-twisted to face them as he continued sprinting to the next patch of woods.

Two fusillades of LRMs rushed through the sky, each from a different direction, and slammed into the forest where Sigurd had been not long ago. Clouds of dirt and debris shot into the air, followed by ashy smoke. The bright glow of pulse lasers suddenly cut through the haze and ate through one of the helos' rotors. It nosed down and plummeted into the mountain below. More smoke rose of from the crash as the wreckage caught fire.

The other Warrior spun around frantically, trying to locate Gunnar's _Mad Dog_. It pockmarked his armor with its AC/2 as the heavy OmniMech emerged from the trees, but it was not enough to deter his attack. A bright blue pulse smashed through its engine, and the vehicle careened out of the sky, still auto-rotating as it disappeared over the other side of the mountain. Gunnar trotted up the slope to confirm his kill.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gunnar is angry.

Chapter 16

 

Sigurd loped along the mountainside carefully, looking for a better vantage point. He and Gunnar had been hit by two separate units. One of them was, or at least had been, somewhere in the direction Gunnar was heading, now. While the other man was occupied, Sigurd felt it best to take the initiative and hunt for the second militia unit. He was not fond of being pelted with missiles.

“Contact!” the Gunnar exclaimed, suddenly. Sigurd could hear another volley of laser fire over his partner's comm. “Scratch one freebirth VTOL, and mark an LRM carrier to the east. Locate the other one.”

 _Already on it,_ Sigurd sighed to himself. Aloud, he merely replied, “Copy, lead,” and continued moving up the mountainside.

More LRMs peppered the mountain at that moment. Now that the VTOL spotters were destroyed, however, the carrier's shots were only its crew's best guess. He turned to face the direction of the latest volley, and lowered his 'Mech into a crouch to make himself less visible. Almost at the same moment, two pairs of Harassers emerged from the sparse woods Sigurd had turned to face. They opened fire on Gunnar's _Mad_ _Dog_ , but failed to notice the _Stormcrow_ nestled against the trees.

“More contacts! Four _Harassers_ on your five o'clock,” Sigurd reported as he stood. “I have them.” He pushed a slim tree out of his way with the _Stormcrow's_ left hand and opened fire.

One hovertank dropped to the ground as his shots cored through its engine. The others scattered. With five of their compatriots already down, the _Harassers_ became desperate, and attempted to swarm him. These light tanks were cheap and widely available, which made them a logical choice for the rebels, but hovercraft were not well-suited to forested areas. Their maneuverability would be seriously hampered.

With the woods shielding his _Stormcrow_ on three sides, and the tanks within range of his medium pulse lasers, it was a simple matter to stand his ground and slice them up. He carved into the next vehicle quickly, while the remaining two struck at his OmniMech's legs with their medium lasers. He turned, waited for a lock, and fired a volley of of his SRMs after another. Armor peeled from its side as some of the missiles hit, but the _Harasser_ evaded in time to escape complete destruction.

It did not take long for Gunnar to finish off the missile carrier on the other side of the slope, and return to the fray. As he stepped out into the open, the damaged _Harasser_ turned away from Sigurd swiftly, and made a beeline for the _Mad_ _Dog_. It turned to see the light tank speeding at it, but Gunnar did not immediately process exactly what the tank was doing. Physical attacks were almost unheard of in intra-Clan warfare, and considered highly dishonorable. The MechWarrior took just a second too long to realize the tank was trying to ram him.

Sigurd fired on it, and one of his shots grazed the hull, but it did not stop or slow the tank. He could only watch as it plowed into the _Mad_ _Dog's_ leg. Chunks of ferro-fibrous flew away from the OmniMech as it slid back under the impact, and the _Harasser_ bounced off of it, cartwheeling. If the tank had more momentum, it could have taken the Omni's leg clean off. As it was, the internal structure still held, but the _Mad_ _Dog's_ slim torso angled downward as it leaned heavily under the blow. The remaining hovertank abandoned its attack on the _Stormcrow_ , and began taking deliberate headshots at the reeling 60-tonner. One of them glanced off Gunnar's cockpit, bubbling armor on the framing.

A quartet of medium pulse lasers put an end to that attack as Sigurd cleaved through the last _Harasser_. By this time, Gunnar had recovered from being rammed in the leg, and heaved his 'Mech back into alignment. Infuriated by the tankers' suicide charge and having his 'Mech shot in the head, he started pulverizing the remnants of both tanks. He pumped his pulse lasers into the wreckage until his gun barrels glowed hot. If anyone had survived the initial attacks, there would be nothing left of them, now.

“MechWarrior, are you—?”

“How do you _think_ I am, freebirth!?” Gunnar snapped. He had finally stopped shooting, but only because he had oversaturated his heat sinks as much as he dared. “Find the other LRM carrier! And kill it!”

Sigurd grit his teeth to avoid saying something he might regret, and trotted off in the direction where he had seen the last barrage of missile fire. The climb took a few minutes, but once he found the carrier, it took no time at all to finish it off. He destroyed it perfunctorily, and returned to the open space where Gunnar waited for him.

“Target destroyed,” he reported.

“Good.” The _Mad_ _Dog_ moved carefully down the slope, heading for the fields at the base of the mountain. There was a subtle hitch in its gait, suggesting some minor damage to the foot actuator. Gunnar seemed to be doing fine otherwise, since he had literally and figuratively cooled off. “Form up on me, and we will return.”

“Aff, ovkhan.” Sigurd guided his _Stormcrow_ down the slope, and moved to the other man's side. Gunnar was going to have a very interesting battleROM from this mission.

 

 

* * * * *

 

“So, the Star Colonel let you out to play with the big kiddies, yesterday?”

Sigurd nodded and laid back in the grass for a moment to catch his breath. Mira had moved their sparring outside and given him a new exercise, in which he had to strike at her as rapidly as possible, while she blocked. If he was slow or missed, it created an opportunity for her to counterattack. He had slipped up in the first round, and took a nasty shot to the ribs as punishment. He did not miss again.

“It was good to be back in the field, even if it was just tank-hunting,” he said, rubbing a hand over his sore ribs. He sighed. “I keep losing track of time. It seems like I was a bondsman for an eternity. How long was it, really?”

Mira chuckled and crouched down beside him. “Long enough for you to get some meat on your bones,” she asserted. The Elemental woman reached over and pinched her fingers around his bicep, teasingly. “You are starting to look like a proper Wolf now, instead of the scrawny Periphery cur Akela dragged in.”

“Ha,” he muttered, rolling his eyes at her pun, and flexed his arm to dislodge her fingers.

He had indeed gained a fair amount of weight since his capture. Clan food was not the most palatable fare, but it was nutritious. His muscles were starting to get bulkier, though not by much, and his skin looked smoother and more supple. The latter evidenced that he was finally regaining most of the body fat he had lost to near-starvation. He was not as broad and thickly-built as most of the Clanners around him, but Mira was right that he no longer looked quite so gaunt in comparison.

She stood again, then reached down and grabbed him by the arm, and hoisted him back onto his feet. “Okay, enough chitchat.” She brought her hands up and beckoned him forward.

Sigurd nodded and chuckled softly, drawing himself into a ready stance. The moment he began to move towards her, Mira leapt at him and brought her right fist down at his head. Sigurd blocked, pushing against the inside of her forearm with his own, bleeding the energy out of her strike. He pushed forward at the same moment, using his legs to propel himself, and the heel of his palm impacted her solar plexus. She swung her left hand down, aiming for the base of his skull.

Mira always used a gentle, open-palmed slap to the back of his neck in lieu of a real strike, which made the move seem like a strange sort of love tap. While she was not normally averse to roughing him up a bit, it would take almost no effort on her part for such a move to kill him. He had already “died” that way a few times in their spars.

This time, however, he knew how to save himself. Sigurd jackknifed his right arm back towards his body, so that his forearm covered his neck. At the same time, he brought his arm up to deflect Mira's hit.

Sigurd struck her again, putting a slicing jab to her side, while he brought his knee up along the inside of her thigh to force her leg back. He could feel Mira shift her weight, and knew that was the opportunity he had been looking for. When they had first sparred, he thought getting in close was a mistake. He had eventually learned that his mistake lay in failing to press his attack once he was near. Like everything else since his capture, he took it as a lesson. Before she could fully cement her stance, he hooked his right foot behind her ankle. Mira fell backwards as he knocked her foot out from under her, but she shot back up almost the instant she hit the ground, and came up swinging. Sigurd twisted out of her way and put a kick to the inside of her thigh, ruining her balance.

The warrior grabbed his shoulder, in order to pull him to the ground if she fell. He brought his hand up and grabbed her wrist, locking it. With that, he was able to position himself outside of her reach, exactly as he hoped. Mira caught her balance and tried to unfold her wrist, but he was quicker this time. Sigurd turned in towards her, kicked the back of her knee to force her down, and tapped her in the side of the head as quickly and as many times as he could.

“Okay, okay— Stop!” Mira barked.

He let go of her wrist and drew back quickly, still positioned to fight, in case she called for another round.

Instead, she just shook her head, dusted herself off, and then stared at him quizzically for a moment. “You finally got me.”

“I finally stopped thinking.” He did not count it as a complete victory, since Mira was holding back, but it was progress.

She chuckled and motioned for him to relax as she stood and began some cool-down stretches. “Yes, you are definitely becoming a proper Wolf.”

Someone began to clap slowly, and Sigurd turned to see Akela Kerensky strolling towards them. He got back on his feet swiftly as the Star Colonel approached.

“Nicely done,” Akela said, smiling. “It is good of you to keep our new trothkin on his toes, Mira.”

The Elemental nodded. “Thank you, Star Colonel. His survival rate is up to one fraction of one percent.”

He chuckled and nodded. “Elaine and Kasha are both looking for you, by the way,” he added, and clasped his hands together behind his back. “They seem to be having a bit of a row over who gets your attention first.”

“Oh?”

“Elaine is starting a football game, and wants you to play forward. Kasha seems to have a different sort of activity in mind.”

She grinned. “I had better go settle their dispute, then.” Mira looked over at Sigurd. “Do you play football? Our games are coed, so you could take my spot.”

The offer was tempting but after a moment's thought, he declined.“I, eh, think I will sit this one out.” While football was probably safer than sports like lacrosse, as the Clans played it, he could not help but imagine colliding with Elaine or another Elemental during a slide. Something told him that his presence would not be well-received, anyway.

Mira shrugged, then jogged off to find her Pointmates. Akela remained behind.

“You are not joining them, quineg, sir?”

“Neg,” Akela replied with a chuckle. “I do not play sports with Elaine. Of course, she never plays _go_ with me, so we are even.” He sat down in the grass and folded his arms over his knees.

Unsure of what else to do, Sigurd sat down beside him.

“You know,” Akela mused, “I am surprised at how quickly you have taken to our ways.” There was a note of something just short of suspicion in his tone of voice. “Inner Spherers do not often adjust very well.”

Sigurd hesitated a moment, then shrugged. “I am not an Inner Spherer. I am from the Periphery,” he replied nonchalantly. “Clan culture is still somewhat alien to me, but warfare—that, I understand.”

“You will learn.”

“Aff.”

“I admit, I am often curious about the other societies our Clan has encountered.” Akela flashed a grin. “Care to regale me with tales of your strange barbarian ways?”

“Depends. Are you going to ask that I teach you the emotion my people call 'love'?” Sigurd asked in his most deadpan voice.

The Star Colonel laughed. “I think I saw a trivid like that, once. 'She conquered his world; he conquered her heart!'” he said with great melodrama. “And the answer, by the way, is: No, thank you.”

Sigurd chuckled. “Honestly, I am not sure _what_ to tell you. It all seems... boring.”

“You could start with your homeworld. What was it like?”

“Hot and dry and harsh.” That part was easy enough to sum up. “Rotwelt had— _ha_ _s_ very little arable land. We were always at the mercy of the few surface rivers. The floods controlled the harvest.”

“How... pleasant. But I grew up on Strana Mechty, so what do I know?” Akela chuckled. “I do not recall hearing of a planet by that name, though.”

“It's coreward of the old Lyran-Draconis border.” Sigurd moved over to a bare patch of ground, and sketched out a rough diagram of the region's cosmography in the dirt. He wondered if Akela had another purpose to the questions beyond idle chat, but there was nothing worth a Clan's attention on his homeworld, and there never had been.

“That would have been in the Wolves' corridor for Operation Revival,” Akela observed.

“Yes. The Clans never conquered it, though. At least, not during the time I lived there.” Akela gave him a look of intense disbelief, and Sigurd put up a hand to forestall any questions. “I think they never _noticed_ it. Rotwelt had no HPG, which kept it off most maps, and a very small population. Even the Oberons and Valkyrate barely noticed it.”

“You told me that the Falcons killed your father, though.”

He nodded. “Aff, but that was on a different planet. He was part of the security detail for a DropShip during a supply run. The Falcons ripped it apart.” Sigurd took a deep breath, and tried not to clench his fists.

“How unfortunate.” Akela looked up from the map Sigurd had drawn and frowned. “Tragic,” he corrected himself.

Sigurd understood that the Clans had a different perspective on death. It was primarily felt as a loss of resources, rather than a personal loss. “You do not need to call it tragic, on my account.”

“I am told we Clanfolk often seem... callous to outsiders.” He shrugged. “I did not wish to cause offense.”

“I see.” Sigurd eyed his superior warily. “Might I ask you a question, Star Colonel?”

“Aff.”

“ _Why_ do you not wish to cause offense?”

He laughed suddenly, as if the query was ludicrous. “For the same reason I not go around hitting wasps' nests. I am trying to have a civil conversation. What good would it do me to anger you needlessly?”

“You are pretty civil, for a Clansman,” Sigurd noted. “Sir.”

“That is not much of a compliment, given the competition, but I will take it,” the officer chuckled. “We have spent three hundred years perfecting ourselves as weapons of war. Sometimes, though, there is no harm in obtaining what you want through other channels.”

“So—”

“I said I would answer _one_ question,” Akela interrupted. He stood and began walking back towards the ship. “Prepare for training maneuvers, tomorrow.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Elaine breaks in a new steed.

Chapter 17

 

Sigurd shifted a little in the command couch, still not quite used to the cooling suit, and tried to hold his 'Mech steady. He had been left out of the Thirteenth's earlier maneuvers, since he would not be assigned to a Star until after his Blooding. The focus of today's exercise was a necessary part of his training as a Clan MechWarrior and, more specifically, as a Wolf.

The Wolves were not so heavily invested in combined-arms as the Hell's Horses, but they did use such tactics where suitable. In the sibkos, their cadets learned to fight against and alongside all three warrior phenotypes. The mission Sigurd had undertaken with Jay's Point was chaotic and reactive, which made for a poor introduction. Now, he would get his first proper course on working alongside Elementals.

Presently, he heard a scrabbling, metal-on-metal sound on the outside of his _Stormcrow_ as five armored warriors climbed onto it. He felt the 'Mech sway a little with each passenger, and let himself lean instinctively to resist the pull of their additional weight. Elaine Sradac had chosen his 'Mech for her own Point, likely because he was the least experienced with the Clan's battle-armored troops. He looked up at the ceiling of his cockpit as he heard the last one walking _clank-clank-clank_ along the top of his 'Mech. A camo-painted suit of armor dropped down by the right side of his cockpit, clinging tight to the handhold on his chassis. The warrior turned towards him, peering through the ferro-glass.

“Okay, scrub, listen closely.” Elaine's voice was calm, almost soothing. That made him very suspicious. “I know how MechWarriors are. You think that you alone are the lords of the battle field. War gods, driving your enemies before you and destroying all in your wake. You think we Elementals are dumb brutes, who are strong and sturdy, but have not the brains of a surat. You think that we serve you.

“That is like an _ass_ thinking it commands the rider.”

Sigurd remained still and silent. He did not want to give her anything to criticize before the maneuvers had even started.

“When you are with me, you are the steed. You serve my warriors. You do as I command. Do you understand this, abtakha?”

“Aff, Star Captain. I do as you command.”

Elaine tapped the barrel of her gun arm against the cockpit framing lightly. “One more thing... All your weapons are locked for the duration of the maneuvers, but you will still be able to 'fire' them. You will notice, however, that your computer currently lists your SRMs as obstructed,” she explained. “You can see this, quiaff?”

He glanced up to the weapons readout on his HUD, and saw that the missiles were colored with a flashing yellow bar. “BLOCKED,” was displayed in bold lettering next to them.

“Aff, Star Captain, I see it.”

“The 'obstructions' are myself, on the right, and Kasha, to your left. If you _do_ try to fire your SRMs while we are on board, I will be notified that one of my finest warriors and I have been roasted alive by friendly fire,” she continued, still perfectly calm. “And then, I will haul you out of your cockpit and break you into little, tiny pieces. Understood?”

“Aff, Star Captain.”

“Move out. Cruising speed to nav Alpha.” Elaine chuckled, then. “Time to break you in.”

Sigurd did as she instructed, and throttled up smoothly as he moved out of the hangar. The _Stormcrow_ felt different with the Elementals' weight, but it was easier and more natural than the last time he had carried battle armor on it. He imagined the ride on a moving Omni was fairly rough, but none of the Elementals complained.

The rest of the participants in his team were already on the field. Lorna and Sosimo stood side-by-side in their _Shadow_ _Cats_ , and were joined by a _Pouncer_. All three of the 'Mechs were loaded with Elementals. He had acclimatized to the sight of battle armor since his capture, but watching them cling to the OmniMechs made them look newly bizarre, like eldritch jewelry.

He passed the other 'Mechs without slowing, and proceeded directly to Alpha. The nav point lay in an open field where the Wolves had erected a series of pylons. All around the structures, the ground was scarred with the footprints of various 'Mechs.

“This first course should be simple—if you were a Clan whelp, anyway. Let us see how you do,” Elaine mused as he came to a stop at the nav point. “Slalom through the pylons, and complete the course under time, _without_ scraping us off during the turns. On my mark...”

As soon as she gave the word, he sprinted for the first set of pylons. He had done exercises like this countless times before, when he first learned to pilot. His hands and feet responded immediately to the commands of his subconscious. Full throttle through the straightaways. Slam it back just before the next set of pylons. Hit the pedals. Lean left. Sprint out of the turn. Repeat.

The _Stormcrow_ _'s_ feet dug into the earth as it ran, kicking up grass and dirt, and adding its mark to the training grounds. The way its weight shifted through the turns surprised Sigurd. He had expected the maneuvers to be more strenuous, but the Omni's advanced gyro was clearly doing a lot of the heavy lifting. It was fortunate he had the opportunity to put the _Stormcrow_ through its paces before his Trial. Learning the limits of this machine too late could be disastrous.

He cleared the last set of pylons, and came to a smooth stop.

“Hm. Under time,” Elaine observed. “Do it again, scrub. Ten laps.” She shifted to peer into the cockpit again. “And wipe that stupid grin off your face.”

“Aff, Star Captain.” Sigurd bit his lip, and turned the 'Mech around to repeat the course. He had not even realized he was smiling. With the sheer ecstasy of piloting filling his nerves as he wove his way through the course, it was hard not to grin, but he would not put it past the Star Captain to write that up as insubordination.

When he finished the laps, she began another miniature lecture. “Suppose you are entering battle against another Clan force, and carrying a Point of Elementals. Another MechWarrior spots you, and wishes to engage you in a duel. What course of action would you take?”

“Should I accept the challenge, Star Captain,” Sigurd began, carefully, “I would advise the opposing Warrior to hold their fire until I allow the Point to dismount.”

“Well, this one is a hothead and fires on you, anyway.”

“Then the Point I carry may be included in the duel, ovkhan.”

“None of the Elementals were hit.”

“There was potential for it, ovkhan. If the opposing warrior had no qualms about the possibility of hitting them, they must have no qualms about engaging both myself and the Elementals, at once.”

“So, you would order the Elementals to engage your target, _quiaff?_ ”

He began to respond in the affirmative, but then recalled her earlier admonishment. “Neg,” Sigurd answered. “They may be needed elsewhere, and they may not be mine to command. You did not specify, Star Captain.”

While he waited for her to issue further remarks, Sigurd caught some movement out of the corner of his eye. Kasha was shifting, bringing his armored feet up against the _Stormcrow's_ hull as if in preparation to move. The next moment, there was a sharp beep from the console.

“Oh, look!” Elaine chirped. “Here comes Sosimo...”

She did not bother to tell him to run. As soon as the _Shadow_ _Cat's_ signature appeared on his sensors as an “enemy” unit, he hit the throttle. “Orders, Star Captain?”

“Engage!” she cackled.

Soon enough, the medium 'Mech appeared through the trees. His _Stormcrow_ was swift, but the _Cat_ could easily outrun it with MASC. Sigurd turned his 'Mech parallel to the approaching 'Mech, and torso-twisted to face it. He readied his guns and dragged his targeting reticule over its sleek frame, waiting for the sound of a lock.

“The A-configuration only has only three weapons,” Elaine reminded him. Her voice resumed its previous sedateness. “Its primarily asset is reach. Destroy that asset.”

He did not give a verbal reply, but merely adjusted his course to draw closer. To his right, he heard a scuffling sound as Elaine readied herself. The _Shadow_ _Cat's_ pilot recognized his movements, and increased its own speed to get out of range. Sigurd tried again to track it, and after a few seconds of stalking the opposing 'Mech, was rewarded with a solid missile lock. He pulled back the trigger for his LRMs. While he had not forgotten this was a training exercise, he was momentarily confused when none of his missiles actually launched. Sigurd shook his head and concentrated on moving close enough for Elaine's Point to attack.

Elaine spoke again. “Keep in mind that clustered and rapid-fire weapons are often the most dangerous to battle armor. A gauss slug has enough power to rip our suits apart, but is less likely to hit. Machine guns, SRMS... That damage adds up quickly.”

_Good to know,_ Sigurd thought. With two racks of SRMs and an array of pulse lasers, his _Stormcrow_ would be well-suited to defend against battle armor.

If Sosimo was “attacking” him right now, it was impossible to know. The way the _Shadow_ _Cat_ twisted and turned, it certainly seemed the MechWarrior was doing something. Sigurd squeezed the trigger for another salvo of LRMs, but the only indication of his strike was a drop in the ammo levels on the weapons readout.

The two OmniMechs continued to circle each other, and Sosimo fell back towards the woods that surrounded the field. Sigurd seized his opportunity, and rapidly closed in on the _Shadow_ _Cat_. As soon as he was in range, he pulled the trigger for his medium lasers.

The _Stormcrow_ suddenly felt lighter as Elaine's Point leapt from his 'Mech. Once they were clear, they hit their jumpjets and rocketed towards the _Shadow_ _Cat_. Before it could engage its MASC, they landed at various points along its chassis.

At the same time, the Elementals riding on the _Cat_ jumped from their own mount, and leapt at Sigurd. He pulled a hard turn and hit the throttle. One of the battle-armored warriors fell short of his 'Mech, followed by another. Both landed close together in the field, and it looked as though one of them was waving its arms at him angrily.

_Clang!_

An Elemental had landed on top of his 'Mech. Sigurd felt a jolt of adrenaline seize him, and pushed the throttle as far as he could. Frantically, he began to turn and weave in an effort to dislodge the warrior. He hoped the Elemental would not be harmed by his actions, but he did not know what else to do. He only knew that inaction was out of the question.

“ _Kerensky!_ What is the matter with you?” a man scoffed over the comm. “I am not going to hurt you.”

Sigurd dropped down to a cruising speed.

The Elemental moved down to the handhold where Elaine had been earlier. “I am Point Commander Calix.”

“Sigurd, ovkhan.”

“Aff, I know,” he replied tersely. “I think you do not understand this exercise, whelp. The Star Captain explained, _quineg?_ ”

“Neg.”

“Yes, she gets caught up in the excitement, sometimes. The idea is to put your 'Mech in the best position to allow us to unload to the ground or jump onto the target. If we attack first, then you must collect the other Point. If they attack first, you try to evade. Simple, _quiaff?_ ”

“Aff, ovkhan.”

No wonder the Elemental was waving at him. He was supposed to pick them up, not buck them off his 'Mech. He felt foolish, now.

“Get my warriors. Then, we shall go for the _Shadow_ _Cat_.”

He gave his affirmative and quickly moved to allow the rest of Calix's Point to board his 'Mech. Sigurd lowered the _Stormcrow_ into a crouch for a moment, while the warriors leapt onto his 'Mech, then stood again and began to run. He was not quite sure what the opposing MechWarrior's next move would be, but he did not want to be sitting still when it came. Loading and unloading Elementals from an OmniMech, he could see, was a potentially vulnerable position for both parties involved.

This exercise seemed strange, but at least it was straight-forward. He wondered if Elaine neglected to explain the rules on purpose or if it was merely an oversight. Although she clearly held him in contempt, it did seem that she wanted him to learn. He resolved not to fumble the next exchange.

The mock-battle continued for several rounds, and Sigurd met with varying degrees of success. Sosimo was quite hard to catch, especially when using the _Shadow_ _Cat's_ MASC. Constant use of that system ran the risk of overtaxing it, though. Eventually, Sigurd realized a convincing feint would prompt Sosimo to engage it. Immediately afterwards, when the _Cat's_ myomers were cooling down, was the best time to strike.

Just as he developed that strategy from watching his opponent, so too, did the Clansman pick up on Sigurd's trick after a couple times. Some time later, it ceased to matter; Sosimo stopped using the MASC to avoid a system failure, which put them at the same top speed. Things became more frenetic from that point, until Elaine finally called the maneuvers to an end. The _Shadow_ _Cat_ loped off with Calix's Point on board, while Sigurd was given instructions to run the gauntlet ten times more.

The Star Captain eventually dismissed the rest of her Point, but kept Sigurd out much later for additional exercises in anti-infantry tactics. The calm and collected way she spoke when instructing him was still surprising. Only her gentle epithets reminded him what she thought of his presence in the Cluster. When she finally released him for the day, she offered no praise. At least her criticisms, though lightly peppered with insults, were fair assessments of his performance.

Another day had passed, and he was one day closer to his Trial. Sigurd laid down on his bed, quite ready for sleep. He would have thought that Elaine would be even more exhausted after such a long day, but Elementals never seemed to tire. Trueborn MechWarriors might not be the titans they so often portrayed themselves to be, but Elementals were damned close.

It did not take long for him to fall asleep. When he did, his dreams were fevered visions of metal demons ripping their way into the cockpit of his 'Mech.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sigurd is tested.

Chapter 18

 

A smile eased onto Sigurd's face as Murata-san sat down beside him. She smiled back as he handed her a cup of tea. Neither of them spoke. Instead, they merely sat together, looking out over the garden and listening to the sounds of morning. Birds sang from the trees, water bubbled in the nearby creek, and wind sighed through the chimes at the corner of the house. It was peaceful here. Perhaps that was why he felt so out of place.

He lifted his cup to drink, and noticed Murata-san peering at him over the rim of her own teacup with concern.

“ _Itadakimasu,_ ” he said quickly, trying not to butcher the pronunciation. He always forgot to say that before meals or tea. When she still looked worried, he asked, “Um... _Daijoubu_ _desu_ _ka?_ ”

Learning Japanese was a struggle for him, but he used what little he knew around her. Murata-san was patient enough not to take offense when he spoke improperly, and kind enough not to laugh when he said something foolish. Practice, she often reminded him, was the only way to improve.

“Your hands are shaking,” she replied in English.

He sighed and took a sip of the tea.

“What are you going to do?”

“ _What can I_ _do_ _?_ ” he asked in halting Japanese. Although his wounds were healing, there was still something wrong. Even now, a phantom sensation lingered in his mind, telling him there should be more to his body than meat and bones. The more he thought of it, the more he felt a longing in his nerves. It hurt.

The young woman set her teacup aside. “Father asked me to talk to you about something,” she said, unconsciously fidgeting with the sleeve of her _gi_ in the way she always did when she was worried.

Sigurd bowed his head and raked his hands back through his hair, which had by now grown much longer than he liked. Being unable to feel bare skin at his temples just served as another reminder that he was dispossessed, no longer a MechWarrior. He tried to will himself to glance over at his friend, but found that he could not meet her gaze.

Murata-san continued. “He said he might be able to do something to help with your...” She trailed off a little. “With your symptoms.”

Sigurd looked up hesitantly. “The _kata_ help.”

“But not enough,” she said with a searching look.

It was not a question. Even if it had been, he did not have the will to lie. Not to her.

“I'm glad that you enjoy it, but you need more than exercises. Father said that—if you're willing to try—perhaps he can find a solution. He said that some of your problems are similar to patients he has treated for withdrawal.”

He tensed. _Withdrawal_. Withdrawal from what?

“The chemical treatments that helped them might help you, too.”

He looked back at her in horror. How could she even suggest such a thing? How could her father? They both knew what the Jaguars had done to him. His heart raced, and the edges of his vision started to blur. The very idea of anything altering his mind again was enough to made him light-headed.

“Sigurd.” Murata-san put one of her hands on his, snapping him out of his daze.

He met her eyes. “I can't,” he said quietly. “I just... I can't.”

Becoming more lucid, Sigurd pulled away from her, and then began to pull himself out of sleep. He did not want to remember this moment, this _weakness_. The month he had been given to prepare had elapsed. It was time to wake up and face the monsters waiting outside his nightmares.

 

* * * * *

 

To most outsiders, the Clans' practice of live-fire Trials of Position seemed barbaric. It was unthinkable to require that cadets put their lives on the line for a mere entrance examination. Sigurd could understand the purpose of it, though. Those unwilling to risk death were unfit to be warriors. Within the Clans, many hopefuls would much rather die than fail. He understood that, too.

His time in bondservice and the month of training following his adoption had prepared him for this Trial. In a way, his entire life had led to this moment. He had trained and fought and suffered, all to one day face the Clans. He was about to find out if his efforts had been enough. If he could not best the Wolf MechWarriors in his Blooding, there was no point in pursuing his vendetta against the Jade Falcons. He would much rather die than fail.

 _But_ _I will not fail._

One of the Wolf astechs mentioned that heavier machines were customarily used on such occasions, but Sigurd was glad to keep the 55-ton _Stormcrow_ he had been assigned of late. It had become familiar to him, and it was reliable. He checked his Omni's systems once more, then pressed down on the throttle gently and guided it out of the hangar.

The Trial zone lay ahead of him, hemmed by dragon's teeth. The area was circular, as was customary for such events, and laid out in an open field. There was no cover to hide behind, no rough terrain in which to trap his opponents. There was enough space to pull back and catch one's breath, but not so much that any 'Mech could retreat very far. The Star Colonel had told him that he would be tested on his knowledge of honorable combat. Now Sigurd understood what the Clansman meant, when he had said mistakes would not be tolerated. In accordance with zellbrigen, he would stand or fall on skill alone.

 _All I have is myself,_ he repeated, _and I will not fail._

As he approached the Circle, his computer spoke up. “This is a call to Trial. The fires of combat will decide your fate...”

The computer continued to offer additional instruction, but Sigurd already knew the parameters. He would face his opponents in the order of lightest to heaviest, one at a time. For every opponent he defeated, he would gain one rank.

Some of the Cluster's 'Mechs sat waiting outside the dragon's teeth. The Command Binary awaited further back from the ring, all of them painted up in Theta Galaxy's tan-and-white scheme, while five more 'Mechs stood lined up in preparation to engage in the Trial. At the twelve o'clock position was a _Pouncer_ _;_ on each side of it stood a _Shadow_ _Cat_. A _Mad_ _Dog_ and _Timber Wolf_ completed the quintet. The other 'Mechs were still as statues, but he saw the _Mad_ _Dog_ shift almost imperceptibly. It was definitely Gunnar.

They had been on several missions together over the course of the month, which only served to fuel the trueborn's ire. Familiarity bred contempt, but it was doubtful that Gunnar needed any additional motive to hate him. Sigurd allowed himself a faint smile. He had expected this. In fact, he would have been disappointed were the other man not one of his challengers.

What did surprise him, however, was the appearance of another 'Mech on his six. A _Linebacker_ cruised up beside him, and joined him in approaching the Trial zone. Its pilot hailed him on a private channel.

“Try to stay out of my way, _abtakha_ ,” Cenek warned.

No one had mentioned anything about another participant, much less one who was already a MechWarrior. Sigurd could only surmise that the Star Commander was being tested in order to maintain the field promotion he had been awarded some months prior.

Akela Kerensky's voice cut in over the open frequency. “This Trial is sacred. Let none interfere,” he declared. “Warriors, proceed into the Circle of Equals, and your Trials will commence.”

Sigurd let Cenek's comment go without reply, and returned his focus to his own affairs. He loped up to the edge of the Trial area, and passed between the dragon's teeth without hesitation. The _Pouncer_ immediately bolted into action, and moved laterally around the outskirts of the ring. Between missions and various maneuvering exercises, he had spent most of his downtime studying the Clusters' 'Mechs, trying to prepare for whatever he might face. The _Pouncer's_ dual ER PPCs had a lot of bite, but he was ready for the challenge. The important thing, he reminded himself, was to get at least one kill. No matter what, he must get one kill.

Working the pedals and throttle to turn, Sigurd moved opposite the _Pouncer_ in a wide arc. They twisted to face each other, and the _Pouncer_ opened up with a blast of ions. Its ER PPC went wide and a little high, and narrowly missed hitting his 'Mech in the shoulder. At the same moment, Sigurd fired off a salvo of his LRMs. They crashed into the ground as the opposing 'Mech rose up on its jumpjets. Neither he nor the other pilot had drawn blood. That was expected, considering the speed at which each of them moved. The first shots were merely a statement of intent.

In the rear arc of his viewscreen, he could see Cenek's _Linebacker_ similarly squaring off with one of the _Shadow_ _Ca_ _ts_ . That was not his fight, however , or his concern. Still, he kept it in the back of his mind. If a mêlée began by accident (or design), then every 'Mech put up for the Trial would become fair game. While he would prefer not to engage Cenek, since he had nothing against the man, he did not expect to be granted the same courtesy.

Sigurd tightened his turn and sprinted after the _Pouncer_ , guns at the ready. As the meters between them slipped away, his opponent opened fire with both PPCs. The first shot missed, but the second crackled against the lower part of his left torso. The _Stormcrow_ shuddered, but only slightly. The damage felt strangely minor: more like a tap than a hammerfall. His sensors had still gone a little fuzzy. Perhaps it had been a glancing blow. He moved his crosshairs to lead the opposing 'Mech and opened fire with all four of his medium pulse lasers. The first two did not even scratch the _Pouncer_ , but the next volley hit it solidly in the torso.

That got the other MechWarrior's blood up. The _Pouncer_ turned and attempted to flank him, firing as it ran. Its ER PPC missed, and for a moment, Sigurd thought its laser shot had, as well. When he glanced to his armor readout, he could see it had struck one of his legs. He also noticed the first hit had done more damage than he initially estimated. That was puzzling. Sigurd pressed his lips into a thin line, disconcerted about the difference between what he felt happening to the 'Mech and what his computer's readouts showed. He could not afford the time to worry about it, though.

He pulled back on the throttle to better track his opponent. Twisting hard to follow it, he pulled his crosshairs ahead of the _Pouncer's_ hunched frame and squeezed the trigger. One of the pulse lasers hit it in the torso, making the machine jerk, and the next shot to land tagged it on the leg. Sigurd toggled to his LRMs next, while he readjusted his aim. The lock tone shrilled and he fired on reflex; six of the warheads hit. Sigurd kept moving, and watched his target carefully as he zigzagged out of the _Pouncer's_ firing arc.

The target readout for the opposing 'Mech showed satisfactory damage, but its armor looked quite intact. The _Pouncer's_ paint was scuffed and its side was blackened where the missiles had hit it, but there were no holes or gouges at the point of impact. Sigurd snorted in annoyance. There should be little pieces of the other Omni littering the ground.

The _Pouncer_ recovered quickly and chased after him again, firing off another bolt of its ER PPC. Sigurd responded with only a pair of his lasers while he waited for the _Stormcrow's_ heat sinks to finish cooling the 'Mech. Once his heat gauge was back to neutral, he took up the offensive. He fired all of his lasers, but the _Pouncer_ jumped at that moment, and evaded his fire. It landed, throttled up, then fired on him in return. The other MechWarrior had put too much of a lead into the shot, and it sailed past the _Storm_ _c_ _row_ harmlessly as Sigurd throttled down.

He came to a stop and turned to face the other OmniMech. It was time to punch through the _Pouncer's_ armor and start breaking its bones. His opponent leapt again, trying to shake his aim, but Sigurd was ready. He leaned back, and pulled back on the control stick so the _Storm_ _c_ _row_ mimicked his movements. Just before the _Pouncer_ reached the apex of its jump, Sigurd let loose with his pulse lasers. All four beams splashed against the _Pouncer's_ hull, and he quickly followed up with his streak SRMs. Only one salvo left the racks, but all of the missiles hit beautifully.

The _Pouncer's_ damaged leg jerked oddly as it descended, and his computer showed that he had damaged its gyro. Defiantly, it swiveled its left arm to face him, and snapped a blue bolt of ions across his _Stormcrow's_ leg. Less than a second later, the medium 'Mech landed—hard. Its right leg folded beneath it, and it plowed headfirst into the ground. One of its arms twitched, but then the 'Mech lay still. Sigurd turned and circled around it curiously. There was something wrong about all of this. His damage readouts showed that the _Pouncer's_ right side was all but destroyed and its right leg had disintegrated entirely. Clearly, this was not the case.

“Kill awarded,” his computer informed him.

 _Did the MechWarrior die?_ Sigurd wondered, chewing his lip as he paced back and forth. He was prepared for the possibility that he might slay an opposing pilot during the Trial, but he did not quite expect it.

As he mulled this over, the _Pouncer_ moved again. Its weight seemed to shift from one side to the other. Sigurd was inclined to think he was imagining things or that the 'Mech was just settling after its fall, until it very deliberately planted one arm on the ground. The _Pouncer_ moved its feet to dig into the soil and pushed itself back into a standing position. It torso-twisted to face him, teetering a little on its feet, then limped past the dragon's teeth and out of the Circle.

Sigurd moved away from the perimeter, not wanting to be caught unawares by his next opponent. When his confusion over the _Pouncer_ faded, a hypothesis began to form. The idea that Clan Trials of Position were life-or-death events had been so impressed upon him, he did not even consider the possibility of anything less. His opponent's weapons and his own must have been powered down, and even his missiles seemed to have been replaced with sub-powered munitions. He expected both computers were programmed to display normal damage values, lock actuators and myomer bundles, and destabilize the gyros in order to simulate damage. Akela had altered the Trial parameters.

His first impulse was anger. What good was all his work and training if the fight was not real? What would the other Wolves think when they discovered his Blooding was tinged with deception? Sigurd quickly realized, however, that he had been the only one deceived. The _Pouncer_ pilot left after “dying,” as if it were simply part of the program. No one else seemed the slightest bit concerned about it, either. The MechWarriors who volunteered to face him probably knew about all of this from the start.

He twisted to look at Akela's _Cougar_ , standing impassive beyond the edge of the Circle of Equals. _You get to save equipment and still ensure that I_ _am_ _willing to die in this Trial, quiaff? Clever._

The other 'Mechs were completely still, waiting to see what his next move would be, and Sigurd turned back to face them. He raised his _Stormcrow's_ left arm and then fired one of his pulse lasers skyward, signaling his readiness for the next phase of the Blooding.

The _Shadow_ _Cat_ that had remained beyond the dragon's teeth entered, now. Sigurd pushed his _Storm_ _c_ _row_ into a loping run, moving perpendicular to it, then cut a sharp right turn to flank. The _Cat_ throttled up and sprinted away from him, all while turning to strafe his 'Mech. It brought its guns up and fired a laser beam down the range.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is something amiss.

Chapter 19

 

The _Shadow_ _Cat's_ first shot went wide past his 'Mech, while the other lit up his right leg. Sigurd felt the _Stormcrow_ shudder, but he did not slow. From the opposing pilot's movements, he recognized that it was Sosimo whom he faced. That was a double-edged sword. He had learned a little of Sosimo's preferred tactics through the maneuvers they participated in, but so too had the other man learned something of him. The feinting move he had employed during the mock-battle would not work.

Sigurd tightened his turn. He needed to get in close and he needed to do it quickly. Sosimo would hold him at arms' length for the entire battle if possible, using the _Shadow_ _Cat's_ ER large lasers to grind him down. At medium and close range, Sigurd held the advantage.

He dragged his crosshairs down over the _Shadow_ _Cat_ , holding the control stick steady as he waited for a lock. The _Cat_ fired again, just barely missing him, this time. Sigurd pulled back on the trigger when the lock sounded, then punched the throttle. Fully four-fifths of the warheads crashed down on the opposing 'Mech, and Sigurd used the few seconds of impact to cover his rush at the _Shadow_ _Cat_. Sosimo staggered as the 45-tonner's computer rocked it with simulated damage, but he recovered and fired both of its lasers at Sigurd.

The beams narrowly missed hitting the _Stormcrow's_ cockpit. Sigurd cringed inwardly. Even under-powered, a headshot could very well finish him. He had not taken the battle any less seriously since he realized the weapon effectiveness was altered, but the near-miss was a stark reminder of the risks incurred in all Clan Trials.

Sigurd fired another salvo of his LRMs. This one was a little hasty, and missed his opponent's 'Mech but for a missile or two. It took effort to override the impulse to conserve his ammunition for only the surest shots. He reminded himself this was not a campaign but a single phase of a single Trial. There was no room to shirk from the fight. If he could attack, then he must attack.

He felt keenly aware of the other warriors waiting outside the Circle of Equals. His first defeated opponent, the 'Mechs that had not yet entered the battle, and the entire Command Binary were watching him. They, along with all the other warriors of this Cluster, would be judging his every action. Strangely, it made him smile.

 _Watch,_ he mused, _and see that I am as much a warrior as any of you._

Sosimo lashed at him again with a laser, but the beam missed its mark as Sigurd weaved across the field. He twisted to face his opponent. Both his _Stormcrow_ and the _Shadow_ _Cat_ were shown as a patchwork of yellow and green armor sections on his display. He worked the pedals, turning deftly as the other MechWarrior tried to get a bead on him. Failing that, Sosimo throttled up to avoid falling prey to more of the _Stormcrow's_ long-range missiles.

It was a running battle, now. The two OmniMechs chased after one another, each taking a turn as hunter or hunted as their positions changed. They were still at too great a range for the bulk of Sigurd's weapons to be useful, and the constant sprinting and maneuvering of both 'Mechs ruined Sosimo's shots. The Clansman seldom used jumpjets, and engaged the _Shadow_ _Cat's_ MASC only once, when Sigurd had managed to close within range to strike with his short-range weapons. His pulse lasers clawed at the air where the _Cat_ had been only an instant ago.

Their battle brought them uncomfortably close to Cenek's part of the Trial. The _Linebacker_ was still slugging it out with a _Shadow_ _Cat_ , which Sigurd could only assume was piloted by Lorna. One of Cenek's ER PPCs washed against her right leg, but Lorna shook it off and bolted around to flank him. It was hard to tell how much “damage” either 'Mech had accrued, but Cenek's movements—tense, cautious, reactive—suggested he was not fairing well. Their battle had been going on for quite some time now, and Lorna was only his first opponent.

Although the Linebacker out-massed her _Shadow_ _Cat_ by a full twenty tons, the difference was easily made up in maneuverability. The _Linebacker_ had the same normal running speed as its opponent, but its legs were mounted directly to the torso. It was completely unable to twist, and had to face its target directly.

Sosimo rushed past Lorna suddenly and hit his jumpjets, sailing over Cenek's squat _Linebacker_ . Sigurd held his breath until the _Shadow_ _Cat_ landed, untouched, then sighed in relief. He followed after it, giving the other pair of duelists a wide berth. By bringing the two battles close together, his opponent was clearly trying to create a situation in which either he or Cenek would start a mêlée. At least it was no trouble to distinguish one _Shadow_ _Cat_ from the other, since each was a different configuration.

Sigurd pulled a tight turn past Cenek's _Linebacker_ as Lorna strafed it, and bolted for the spot she had been moments ago. That finally put him in position to herd his opponent away from the other OmniMechs. Seeing the _Stormcrow_ come upon him so suddenly, Sosimo bolted back to the other half of the field where there was more room to maneuver. The _Shadow_ _Cat_ torso-twisted sharply to face him as he drew closer, and fired its lasers.

One of the shots caught the _Stormcrow_ in its chest, breaking the left torso armor, while the other pounded the Omni's left leg. The Trial program sent a shiver through its actuators in response. A sharp burst of feedback seeped into his brain through the neurohelmet, threatening to unbalance him and topple the 'Mech. Sigurd pushed back, forcing the OmniMech to stay on its feet.

Conscious thought left him as his rational mind relegated control to his subconscious. The _Stormcrow_ was no longer a machine under his command, but an extension of his body. He felt the weight of the thing, felt its balance, its limbs and their positions as if they were his own. Any physical sensation that was not the 'Mech drowned in a tide of information from the neurohelmet.

His hearing and eyesight remained keen but it was as if an aperture had been adjusted in his brain. Combat was sharp and clear in his mind; all things unrelated were blurred out of notice. Even the nature of time seemed to change. There was no past or future. All that existed was played out in a series of nows. All he had was himself.

And he would not fail.

In the past, he had sometimes wondered if this kind of change was, in fact, harmful. He wondered if relinquishing typical thought patterns put him at a disadvantage. Over time, he came to decide that was not true. Thinking was for the times before and after battle, and in the small lulls between _doing_. In the heat of things, instinct was needed. Properly trained, the mind and the body worked together to create flow. Where thought ceased, _mushin_ began.

He regained his balance and strafed around the _Shadow_ _Cat_ , in an ever-tightening spiral. The sound of a missile lock met his ears, and his index finger automatically pulled back on the trigger. The missiles arced up and then swan-dived into the _Shadow_ _Cat_. While it was distracted, Sigurd lit up its side with all of his medium pulse lasers. That finally made a dent, if only figuratively.

A klaxon sounded, warning of incoming missiles. Sigurd slammed back on the throttle and pushed the left pedal to the floor as he leaned hard in the same direction. A full salvo of SRMs pounded one after the other into his right side. The _Stormcrow_ lurched as its systems responded to the Trial program's request that it kindly begin to fall. Sigurd pressed his back into the command couch, trying to throw all his weight and, by extension, the fifty-five tons of OmniMech back into alignment. He could feel it working, but the right knee actuator was firmly locked in place, making it impossible for him to rock back onto his feet the way he wanted.

The ground rushed up at him as the 'Mech toppled forward. Sigurd thrust out the _Stormcrow's_ left arm to catch himself, spreading its hand out with the sensor glove, and the Omni stopped short of burying its nose in the dirt. Sosimo had run off just after firing that last salvo, but was quickly closing in again to finish the job. Sigurd's mind raced.

He had one kill. He had earned his place as a MechWarrior. If he stayed down, he would still remain a pilot. As he stared at the ground through his viewport, however, he found that was not enough. Something in the deep and shadowed parts of his mind whispered to him. It promised him strength, if only he would obey its sole command:

_Fight._

Sigurd yanked back on the stick once more to pull the _Stormcrow's_ torso up, then stomped on the right pedal furiously, until finally, its knee unlocked. The right leg complied with his directions, and the OmniMech stood.

The displays showed that the _Cat's_ missiles had not penetrated his armor, but they had come very close. Sigurd turned, trying to keep his charred but still-intact right side facing Sosimo, and led the other pilot with his crosshairs. A laser struck his _Stormcrow_ in the left leg, and the computer reported that armor section destroyed. Another shot like that would dissolve all the points allocated to the frame, and put him down for good.

This was his last chance. Had he been thinking, he might have been more cautious. Instead, his instincts urged him to the killing blow. Sigurd held his position and unleashed every one of his weapons.

Waste heat poured into the cockpit as the _Stormcrow's_ heat sinks became overwhelmed, and its four pulse lasers were joined by swarms of missiles shooting off the racks. The lasers hit their mark spectacularly, and virtual armor points fell away from the _Shadow_ _Cat's_ chassis, leaving its guts exposed. One of the streak SRMs failed to lock, but the other salvo pounded into the _Shadow_ _Cat's_ torso. That made short work of its engine. The LRMs hit last, arcing high, and then slammed the _Shadow_ _Cat_ into the dirt.

He flicked his tongue across his lips, tasting salt where sweat had run down his face, and smiled unconsciously. A moment later, the computer confirmed what he had already surmised.

“Kill awarded.”

The _Shadow_ _Cat_ stood up carefully and shook itself off, then trotted out of the Circle. Even before it was clear, the Sigurd could see the _Mad_ _Dog_ fidgeting in anticipation. He looked over his armor readouts and frowned. His _Stormcrow_ had taken a virtual beating against Sosimo. As soon as the _Shadow_ _Cat_ was gone, and without waiting for any signal, the _Mad_ _Dog_ began to move. It would be a shock if he lasted long enough to put even a scratch on the _Mad_ _Dog_. Sighing rather reluctantly, Sigurd made a decision.

He turned to face Gunnar's OmniMech, and lowered his own machine into a crouch. Then, just before the _Mad_ _Dog_ stepped past the dragon's teeth, Sigurd shut down its reactor. He felt his connection to the neurohelmet evaporate, and the _Stormcrow_ sagged down on its haunches like a tired animal. Gunnar came to a halt in front of him, clearly confused. After a moment of hesitation, the Clansman backed up and withdrew to his original position.

“Incoming message: Command Binary,” the computer said suddenly. “Return to the 'Mech bay, and await further orders.”

He restarted the reactor and felt the 'Mech's pull on him once more. As he proceeded back to the DropShip, Sigurd turned and looked out his viewport to watch Cenek's continuing Trial. It surprised him that the two pilots had managed to drag things out for so long, but the battle was obviously nearing conclusion.

The _Linebacker_ was sluggish from overheating, and Lorna was doing her best to exploit that vulnerability, in spite of her _Shadow_ _Cat's_ limp. She jumped, keeping the _Cat's_ feet tucked up under its chassis, and leapfrogged over the haggard _Linebacker_. Upon landing, Lorna turned her guns to Cenek's weak rear armor. Before the _Shadow_ _Cat_ had a chance to fire, the heavy 'Mech's arms spun at the shoulder, flipping over backwards. Both of Cenek's ER PPCs washed over his opponent's medium 'Mech, each bolt grazing an arm.

Lorna stumbled back a few steps. For a moment, both 'Mechs were still. Then, the _Shadow_ _Cat_ trotted back around in front of the _Linebacker_ , raised an arm in salute, and left the Circle of Equals. Cenek followed shortly after, though his Omni's steps were not so sprightly.

 

* * * * *

 

There was no fanfare upon the completion of Sigurd's Blooding. The Thirteenth had apparently gotten its fill of rites and rituals during the adoption ceremony. Instead, Akela merely called for the warriors to gather outside the barracks later in the day. Sigurd was awarded his rank, and then the Star Colonel gave a short brief on the Cluster's newest assignment.

The mercenaries who attacked the Wolves previously had been located, and the Thirteenth Wolf Regulars were ordered to eliminate them. This was not the most glorious assignment for their Cluster, but the warriors seemed quite eager about the prospect of a hunt. A solahma unit was already en route to take over the work of suppressing rebels on Traion.

Sigurd was not at all displeased at the idea of killing mercenaries, but he had too much on his mind to exult in it, at the moment. He stepped into his superior's office as he was bid to enter.

“Star Commander Sigurd,” Akela greeted him with a smile. “How do you like the sound of that, hm?”

As usual with such questions, he was not entirely sure how to respond. “I am glad to serve the Clan in whatever capacity I may, Star Colonel,” Sigurd said finally.

“Ah, very good answer.” Akela chuckled. “Which reminds me... Since Cenek has not maintained his rank, you will have his command.”

Sigurd furrowed his brow. “MechWarrior Cenek fought well in his Trial.”

“Aff, he fought well and bid foolishly. Trials are not solely about martial prowess, but about strategy,” Akela said. “I granted Cenek the option to pilot a different 'Mech, and he still chose to use the _Linebacker_.” He frowned. “Why are you concerned about this?”

“No reason, ovkhan,” Sigurd replied. “Just _fremdsch_ **_ä_ ** _men_ , I suppose.”

Akela raised an eyebrow.

“Er, s _travag._ I do not know what to call it in English, ovkhan,” he mumbled. “You could say... I feel embarrassed about his embarrassment.”

“That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever— Well, the most ridiculous thing I have heard _lately_. Cenek faltered, and his mistake has created an opportunity for you. I do not understand where this strange sympathy comes from. Were he awarded something of yours, I can guarantee that Cenek would not hesitate to take it.” Akela drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “Now, why did you want to speak with me? Surely, it was not only to discuss such nonsense.”

 _Best to be direct_ , he told himself. “You altered the parameters of my Blooding.”

“Aff,” was the matter-of-fact reply.

“You did not inform me that the weapons systems were powered-down.”

“I did not? Hm.” The Star Colonel seemed to consider this for a moment, then shrugged.

Sigurd frowned, becoming irritated at the other man's blasé responses. “I do not understand why you withheld this information from me, ovkhan. Why was I allowed to believe the Trial would take place normally?” he insisted.

“Why does it _matter?_ The method of your Trial was sanctioned. Although we Wolves do not typically Blood warriors in this way, there is precedence for the procedures I employed.” The corners of Akela's mouth tugged into a frown. “I do not feel obligated to explain my command decisions to subordinates. Since you are still learning our ways, however, I shall tell you. I wished to see your reaction.

“When you fought my Star in the _Archer_ , I could see that you were willing to die. But that was a different situation. You were desperate, I think. I wished to see if you would fight with the same fervor, under other circumstances. I also wished to see if you were willing to kill.”

Sigurd fused his brow. “Aff—to both. I am a MechWarrior. Of course, I am willing to die and willing to kill.”

“And how could I know that, without observing it for myself?” Akela smiled a little, almost sadly. “You would not have been the first promising candidate to hesitate at a critical moment.” He shook his head. “Do you see, though? It is no matter, now.”

“Aff...” he relented.

“You have passed your Trial, and well. I am pleased with your performance, Sigurd. Very pleased.” Akela's smile regained some vigor. “I have found an assignment for you within the Cluster, and the details of your unit have been made available to you. For now, I suggest you get some rest. You can review the data in the morning.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which blood is shed.

Chapter 20

 

For the first time in months, Sigurd slept soundly. He did not hear the wolven creature's voice or feel its presence in his dreams, nor did he dream of death at the hands of Elementals, nor even of Murata-san. He did not dream at all. When he woke, he felt fully rested.

After he dressed, he looked himself over in the mirror. He seldom did, except to shave, but the strangeness of his own reflection made him pause. Like seeing the scars on his face for the first time, it did not match his mental image of how he should appear. He looked much more like the Clanners—like the _other_ Clanners—than he would have thought.

Sigurd frowned at the reflection and walked away from the mirror. There was no need to read into such things. He looked like them because he was dressing like them. This was, of course, the purpose of a uniform. Unlike the freeborns who grew up within the Clans, he did not feel compelled to make himself stand out visually, and knew doing so would only serve to isolate him further. Now that he had been given a command, he could not afford to do that.

He sat down on his bed and picked up the datapad from the table beside it. The device displayed information for the skirmisher Binary to which he had been assigned. The unit had been previously commanded by a warrior named Zander, and Lorna had served under him before her promotion. Sigurd immediately recognized Zander's portrait. That was the man he and Lorna had found dying in the wreckage of the base—the man Lorna had killed.

Sigurd recalled the pained look on her face and understood it better, now. The Clans maintained that loss was only unfortunate. He wondered if perhaps they did experience tragedy, and simply had no way to say it.

Scrolling down through the dossiers, he noted that Cenek had been removed from his Star and placed instead with Star Captain Lorna. That was just as well. A MechWarrior named Cora had also been assigned with her, while two others had requested transfer out. Both requests were pending. Only one warrior remained under Sigurd's command, having been denied a transfer.

Gunnar.

 _Of course._ Sigurd gave a heavy sigh and laid back on the bed. He had a feeling the two of them would be yoked together for a long time to come. _What did I do to deserve this? Better yet, what did_ he _do to warrant being stuck with me?_

Only two Points in the Star, and three slots unfilled. He sighed again. Perhaps things would be sorted out during transit to the next planet. In a way, he wished he had capitulated during the second phase of his Blooding. Things would be so much simpler if he were only a MechWarrior.

 _No!_ Something deep in his mind pushed back violently against that thought. _No._ _S_ _imple is the coward's path,_ it told him. _You have made your choice. You have chosen to be more._

Sigurd put the datapad down quickly and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He raked his hands through his hair anxiously as he stood. He needed to get breakfast.

 

 

The grounds around the barracks were strangely empty this morning. As Sigurd approached the mess hall, however, he saw a large crowd had gathered in the clear stretch between that building and the barracks. Whatever the occasion for this gathering, the fact he had not been invited was an ill omen.

Sigurd stopped some meters back, but the Wolves had already noticed him. It was too late to leave. He frowned and resumed walking towards them. Many of the faces in the crowd showed contempt. Some displayed hatred. Most, however, simply looked eager for a bloodbath. They had grown bored on this planet, and Sigurd was about to become their entertainment for the day. Further back, some of the warriors began to stand aside as Gunnar and Cenek pushed through the crowd.

“MechWarriors,” Sigurd greeted them. He looked back and forth between the men, but offered no hint of emotion. He did not want to reveal himself as he plotted how he might have to kill each in quick succession, or escape the mob that had formed.

“Sigurd Volsung.” Gunnar said his surname as if it were a curse. To a Clanner, an unearned name might as well have been blasphemy.

“I am Sigurd _Wolf_.”

“You are nothing.” The MechWarrior gave a wide, fiendish grin. “I told you Akela could not always protect you.”

Lorna, standing nearby, jerked her head up as some of the warriors at the opposite side of the crowd began to move. “Speaking of the watchdog...”

Cenek moved to her side, and the other warriors stepped away from Gunnar as the Star Colonel approached. Elaine and Calix followed after him, evidently prepared to break things up. Gunnar held his ground, but looked increasingly unsure of that decision as his superior neared.

“Would someone care to explain what is going on?” Akela asked, looking around.

“I challenge Star Commander Sigurd's worthiness to lead, and demand a Trial against him,” Gunnar announced, drawing himself into as stern a posture as he could. Then, looking over to Sigurd, he muttered, “If one may call it a Trial...”

Akela followed the MechWarrior's gaze and frowned. “I forbade fighting within our Cluster, so we may conserve our resources,” he said, and looked back at Gunnar. “This time, however... I shall make an exception. Elaine, would you care to oversee this? I have work to do.”

“Gladly,” she chuckled. “Do not worry, ovkhan. I know where to toss the loser's corpse.”

Akela turned to leave, and patted Gunnar on the shoulder. “Good luck, MechWarrior.”

He shrugged away from the Star Colonel's hand, grimacing at the mere suggestion of luck, then looked back at Sigurd. “You and I will have a duel, then, quiaff?” Gunnar asked.

Sigurd only tilted his head to the side quizzically. “For what reason?”

“Reason?!” he cried. “The reason is that I will not be humiliated under the command of Inner Sphere trash! The reason is that you are a freebirth below even our freebirths! The reason is that _you do not belong here._ ”

“The results of my Blooding suggest otherwise.”

Gunnar fumed. “You are not fit to be part of this Clan, much less to lead warriors! Will you face me or not, you gutless coward _freebirth?_ ”

“We do not need to fight,” Sigurd replied, but only because he felt obligated to say so. It was customary, he had found, to offer one's challenger an opportunity to rescind their demand for a duel.

“Will you face me?”

“Aff. We will duel.”

“Good,” Gunnar snorted. “We will duel in the Trial grounds. _Real_ weapons, this time. Full power, live ammo. I will pilot my _Mad_ _Dog_.”

Sigurd smirked. He was officially a Clan warrior, now; it was time to start acting like one. “I bid myself.”

“Yes, of course. What 'Mech?”

“No 'Mech. Just myself.”

There was a tense pause. Gunnar was now obligated to bid down and match Sigurd.

“Very well,” he agreed. “No 'Mechs. What weapons?”

“I will use no weapon.” Sigurd removed the knife from his belt and laid it down in the grass carefully. “In fact...” He crouched down to untie his boots, then stripped off all his clothes save for his jumpsuit. “I bid away my uniform.”

“That is not a proper bid! You are making a mockery of our tradition!”

Sigurd only stared at him grimly. “That is my bid.”

“Very well... Unarmed combat.” Gunnar handed his own knife to Lorna, but kept his boots and fatigues. “Bargained well and done.”

“Bargained well and done.”

The crowd morphed into a nebulous sort of ring, and a man and woman moved into it. The former stood in the center, holding a ball of twine, while the latter held the twine's end taut and used it as a compass to draw a chalk circle on the ground. Someone had obviously been expecting this kind of scenario, even if Gunnar was not.

As soon as the demarcation was complete, both participants strode into the Circle of Equals, and took up positions at opposite ends of it. Even before the fight began, the other warriors started to cheer raucously. The rowdiest part of the group were the freeborns, who looked truly thrilled about the fight. If Sigurd lost, then he would be one less thorn in their sides. On the other hand, seeing a trueborn fall would be a pleasure in itself. No matter who lost, they won.

Sigurd stretched a little, and rocked forward onto the balls of his feet. He would have gladly faced Gunnar in a 'Mech, and was still disappointed that he could not do so during his Trial yesterday. Now was not the time for it, though. He needed to send a message. The best way to do that, was to spill some blood.

Gunnar likewise drew himself into a fighting stance, though it was more rigid. As he brought his arms up in readiness to fight, he kept the right one a little closer to his body than the left. The break was healed, but he still favored it. Sigurd kept this in mind as they began to circle one another.

“You will die,” Gunnar snarled, with an increasingly predatory grin.

Sigurd ignored the taunt. He took a deep breath, letting the things he knew that he knew flood into his mind, then exhaled. He had made his strategy during the bid, and now it was time to let his instincts do the rest. He kept his limbs loose as the other MechWarrior closed in. For a moment, the other Wolves' jeering died down as they waited to see how the fight would begin.

Then, Gunnar struck.

As the other man's fist jabbed at him, Sigurd turned in close, opposite to what Gunnar expected, and struck his elbow against Gunnar's head. It was a glancing blow, but it forced the man back a step. He was not stunned long, though. Gunnar launched another fist at Sigurd, and this time barked his cheekbone. Sigurd twisted away and brought his left arm up quickly to deflect another blow.

Even as his strike failed, Gunnar continued to close in. He moved a little more cautiously this time, and launched his next assault: one fist, then the other, followed by a rapid kick. Sigurd blocked both punches, deflecting them down along his forearms, then swept his foot across the leg on which Gunnar was balancing. Gunnar landed hard on his back but immediately swung his foot up for a kick at Sigurd's head. Sigurd shuffled back to avoid it, and Gunnar leapt up again.

“Beat his sorry ass, Gunnar!” someone yelled. Similar cries followed, but were unintelligible over the combined noise. The audience feedback only increased when Sigurd dodged another set of punches from Gunnar. Backwards, forwards. Left, left again, then back and right.

Being barefoot allowed him to move more naturally, which translated into a slight edge in maneuverability. That, in turn, helped Sigurd stay out of reach of most strikes. Gunnar put a lot of energy into each blow, and Sigurd's arms and cheek had begun to smart from the hits he took earlier. While Gunnar risked tiring himself out by going all-in with every hit, it was a calculated risk. The Clansman was trying to break bones.

Suddenly, Gunnar sprang forward, landing much closer than Sigurd anticipated, and delivered a hit to his midsection. Unfortunately, Gunnar's fist drove right into a bruise he had acquired from sparring earlier. A harsh kick to the inside of his thigh followed. Sigurd grit his teeth against the pain in his ribs, and returned the damage with another elbow strike, then rammed his left knee into his opponent's side. Gunnar's hands grasped after his throat, but Sigurd kneed him again, forcing him back.

There was a moment of positioning afterward, as each tried to find an opening in the other's defense. Then, they closed in again, trading more strikes and blocks. Gunnar grabbed at him, trying to pull him near enough to grapple, but could not gain purchase on the smooth fabric of the jumpsuit. Sigurd, however, easily took hold of the sleeve of Gunnar's uniform and pulled him forward. At the same time, he swung his right arm in a wide arc, bringing the radius of his wrist down on Gunnar like a hammer. The trueborn stumbled, dazed, then dropped to his knees.

Sigurd retreated quickly, and readied himself for the next round.

“That was clever.” Gunnar chuckled weakly as he pushed himself up from the ground. He pulled off his coat, then began to laugh. It was not a mirthful sound. “Your tricks will not save you, though.” Now fully on his feet, Gunnar spun around and aimed a kick at Sigurd's knee.

The man's boot grazed just above Sigurd's kneecap as he moved back. They circled each other again, shuffling to and fro in attempts to land a hit. Patience and alertness was the key. Keep moving, never stop moving, look for an opening, then—strike.

An opportunity soon presented itself. Gunnar slid forward on his right foot, using his body weight to fuel his punch. It could have been devastating had he not favored that arm so much. There was a very brief hesitation in his movements. It lasted for only a fraction of a second, but it was enough. Sigurd grabbed Gunnar by the wrist before the punch landed, pulling him forward and off his feet. He slammed his knee into his opponent's gut, followed by an elbow strike to his head. Gunnar clawed at him frenetically, and managed to grab him around the leg. He dragged Sigurd down to the ground as he fell.

Sigurd landed on his back and tried to turn the situation to his advantage. He began to position his legs to put Gunnar in a triangle choke, but the trueborn squirmed away. Having failed that maneuver, Sigurd knew he had to get back on his feet before Gunnar launched a counterattack. In a situation like this, being on the ground could become a death sentence. He twisted himself around and slammed the heel of his foot into Gunnar's shoulder to dislodge the man's grip on him. It worked, and they both scrambled back to their feet, covered in dirt and grass.

Gunnar wavered a little as he stood. He was built like a pit bull, but he was not indestructible. The strikes he had taken to the head were beginning to make him dizzy. He shook his head, trying to clear his senses, and brought his hands up again, preparing to strike.

This time, it was Sigurd who made the first move. He drilled two hard kicks into the inside of Gunnar's right thigh, and followed up with another wrist strike to the man's neck. As Gunnar faltered, Sigurd moved in, turning his body close, and hooked his right ankle around Gunnar's left. He had one of his opponent's leg's weakened, and the other locked by his own. He snaked one arm around and grabbed the back of Gunnar's neck, digging his fingers in hard. Now able to direct the man's movements, he turned Gunnar away from himself, and forced him down to the ground. Gunnar tried to resist and landed a couple punches, but Sigurd had him unbalanced.

Sigurd straightened his leg, which forcibly bent Gunnar's, and then pulled his foot back. Gunnar fell to his hands and knees. Before he could get up, Sigurd was at him again, and planted one foot in the middle of his shoulder blades to push him down. Gunnar gave a yelp of surprise, followed by a yelp of pain as Sigurd grabbed his left wrist and pulled it back. There was an audible _pop_ as his shoulder was wrenched.

With a cry of rage, Gunnar turned over onto his back and kicked Sigurd's leg away. He rolled back onto his feet, fell once in dizziness, and then got up again. Gunnar glared murderously. Gritting his teeth, he grabbed his own shoulder and pulled it back into place.

“You are getting tired,” Sigurd observed. He could feel the sting of Gunnar's hits, but had been more often successful at deflecting them than not. Unlike his opponent, his balance and awareness were still keen. “Will you yield?”

“Bloody freebirth,” Gunnar spat. He brought his hands up, but now very much favored his wounded left arm.

They neared one another, circling for what Sigurd knew would be the last time. Gunnar leapt at him, throwing his full body weight into the punch. Sigurd blocked, forced him back, and swiftly moved around behind Gunnar. Purely on muscle memory, he brought one hand up under the trueborn's jaw, then placed his other hand on the man's head.

For a moment, he saw not Gunnar, but the Jaguar MechWarrior. He remembered doing this before. He remembered the motions, the adrenaline coursing through his body, and the snap as he executed the maneuver. He remembered, too, feeling his enemy's body tremble almost imperceptibly with fear just before the kill.

Sigurd blinked.

The vision must have been extremely brief. When he returned to the present, Gunnar was still in the midst of reaching up to him in a desperate effort to fend off the killing blow. The other Wolves had fallen into complete silence, merely waiting to see the result. Sigurd moved his arm quickly, sliding it around Gunnar's neck, and applied pressure.

Almost immediately, the man's body went limp. Sigurd stood, pushed him away, and began to walk out of the Circle.

Cenek emerged from the crowd and moved into his path. “This was supposed to be a _duel_ , not an Annihilation!”

Sigurd began to speak, but the blond man cocked back a fist and struck him in the head. Sigurd brought his left arm up to stave off another blow, but his block came half a second too late. The rush of the fight had worn off, and the focus he had just moments before slipped out of his grasp. Cenek's next blow caught him in the ribs, right above the spot Gunnar had hit him earlier, and he heard a crunch from within his own body. Sigurd stumbled back and thrust his left leg out, kicking his assailant in the hip to force him back.

“Stop this!” Elaine thundered as she muscled through the crowd towards them. “The Star Colonel allowed one fight! ONE FIGHT!”

It was too late for that. As Sigurd retreated, Cenek recovered and lunged at him again. He caught the man's arms, then twisted his own hips around and slid his left foot back in preparation for a throw. The move was a little sloppy, though, which reduced his leverage. It took him twice the effort it should have, and he tripped back into another warrior while completing the throw.

The whole crowd erupted, then. Sigurd pulled his arms and legs in, trying to protect his head and midsection from the sudden onslaught. He hit the dirt, landing on his side, and scrambled madly to get back onto his feet. Someone had knocked him to the ground, and the ground could be a death sentence. The last thing he saw was one of Elaine's massive hands reaching for him.

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are consquences.

Chapter 21

 

“I saw Star Captain Sradac reach for me. I remember nothing after that, until I woke up in the infirmary.”

Sigurd looked down at the ugly bruising along his arm and flexed his fingers tentatively. He was that glad his arm and ribs—and everything else, for that matter—were not more badly damaged. As it was, the medics had been gleefully prepared to drug him into a stupor, until he convinced them to let him go with only a bottle of painkillers. The fracture in his ribs hurt badly, but he was terribly frightened of what effect the medication might have on his mind, and so completely neglected to take it.

Akela Kerensky let out a very frustrated sigh. “Tell me again, why did Cenek attack you?” he asked. “I should think he knows what a blood choke looks like.”

“For a moment... I _was_ going to break Gunnar's neck,” he remarked. “Perhaps Cenek did not notice that I moved my arm down.”

Upon waking from his blackout yesterday, he wondered if perhaps he really had killed Gunnar, and his memories of performing a choke were confused or false. It had come as a very great and very strange relief to learn that the man was still alive.

“Why did you change your mind? More of that sympathy you were talking about?”

Sigurd shook his head and sighed. He winced in pain as he did so, and straightened his posture again. “It occurred to me that killing my only subordinate might be a poor move on my first day as a Star Commander.”

“Yes, but starting a _riot_ is a great way to begin,” Akela grumbled. He leaned against the wall, peering out the window of his office at some point on the horizon. His mind seemed partially elsewhere.

Sigurd bit his lower lip. _I did not start the riot. Cenek did._ He realized, however, Akela had not asked him here simply to give his account of the fight. No, the Star Colonel would rely on Elaine and Calix's testimony to render judgement.

Who had done what was inconsequential. There had been a brawl, and he had been involved in it; therefore, he was at fault. That was what he decided as he tried to think the way a Clansman might. Besides, he was an officer now, and Cenek was only a MechWarrior. Sigurd grimaced. It was painfully ironic to think that Gunnar had started all this, and yet was the only one not culpable.

“I accept responsibility for the riot,” he said, finally, “and I wish to invoke surkai.”

Akela turned and nodded. “Very well, Star Commander.” He seemed somewhat satisfied with that. “I will think of a suitable punishment, later.”

“Thank you, ovkhan.”

Privately, Sigurd did not agree at all with what he had said. If the other warrior had simply waited for a response after launching his accusation, none of this would have happened. Initiating the rite of forgiveness seemed to be the best move, though. Stubbornly maintaining innocence would only make things worse, or even cost him his rank. And he had already had this conversation with himself—or something in himself—about why that was not acceptable.

Akela continued to stare out the window. “I completed our reorganization, yesterday. Star Captain Julian is trading MechWarriors Irene and Alger to you in exchange for Mei-ling and Zorya. I have allowed all four warriors to continue piloting their accustomed machines.”

“Why, if I may ask, did you send the others elsewhere, but deny Gunnar's transfer? You seem to have this idea that we belong together, ovkhan.”

The Star Colonel chuckled. It was the first time Sigurd had heard him do so, today. Perhaps his anger was waning. “Yes, I think you do.” Akela glanced back over his shoulder. “One stone to sharpen another, quiaff? Gunnar's codex is solid. He may not be the most agreeable person, but he is a good warrior.”

“I see.”

“You will thank me for this, someday,” he mused. “You are dismissed.”

 

* * * * *

 

Before, Lorna was one of the few who paid him no mind. Although she had “defended” him in the adoption ceremony, fighting with Cenek and defeating Gunnar had certainly earned him no favor with her. Considering she was his immediate superior, that was very unfortunate. Today, she watched him like a hawk, waiting to see if he would approach her. Cenek was gone, probably fulfilling his own surkai, and so she was joined by her other three Starmates plus Gunnar. Sigurd decided not to aggravate things, and found an empty table in another part of the mess hall.

He had no appetite today, which was unusual, and nudged his food indecisively with his fork. After a moment of staring at the grilled something-or-other in front of him, he began to eat it, anyway. He managed a few bites, then pushed his plate away.

This was the last day the Cluster would spend on Traion. After that, Sigurd surmised that he would never see this planet again. He would be glad if it were true. This place and the choices he had made here were beginning to weigh too heavily on him.

He sighed, regretted the motion as pain shot through his ribs, and then tried once more to eat. Meanwhile, a thought struck him. He smiled.

“MechWarrior,” he called across the room.

Gunnar turned, knowing instinctively as people do, that he was being addressed. His eyes widened a little as he saw who had beckoned him. A series of expressions passed over his face in rapid succession: surprise, rage, contempt, agitation, denial. At first, the man tried to behave as though he did not realize he was the one whom Sigurd had called. That did not last long, for the other warriors moved back from him, as if he were plagued. He shot his nearest trothkin a seething look and sulked over to join his commander.

“How are your injuries?” Sigurd asked as Gunnar sat down across from him.

“Fine.” He held his left arm oddly, and looked generally horrid. It seemed, however, that he had already been to the infirmary. The Elementals had probably dragged him there, after the fight.

“Get your meal, and sit with me,” Sigurd instructed.

“ _Sir?_ ” Gunnar practically strangled the syllable until it sounded like a curse. He fumed silently, but managed to control his disdain. “Is that necess—”

“Aff, it is necessary. It is also an order,” Sigurd interrupted. He took another bite of his food, which he had decided was some manner of tofu. “I am not asking that you pretend to like me.”

“I do _not_ like you,” the warrior responded swiftly. “Sir.”

“You wound me, Gunnar.”

His remark was met with a blank stare. It was beginning to seem that Akela might well be the only Clansman to fully grasp the concept of sarcasm. Sigurd looked his unwilling subordinate in the eye. “You are part of my Star, and we must work together as a unit, quiaff? That means developing some tolerance. Just... think of our mealtimes as an inverse honor duel. The goal will be to _refrain_ from murdering one another.”

Gunnar looked sullen for a moment, then smiled. “I almost forgot to ask. How are _your_ injuries, sir?” With that, he kicked the toe of his boot into Sigurd's shin.

Sigurd flipped his knife over in his hand, and made it halfway to his feet before catching himself. He froze, then chuckled a little as he relaxed, and sat back down. “You just lost a point, Gunnar,” he warned. “But I suppose I have, too.”

“What happens if one of us loses all his points?”

He shrugged. “The other one dies, probably, and neither one of us wins.”

Gunnar grinned. “Mutually assured destruction. I might like this game.” He went back to the other table to retrieve his food.

“Irene and Alger have joined our Star,” Sigurd announced, when his subordinate returned.

“There are only four warriors in your Star?” Gunnar frowned.

“Our Star,” he reminded. “Do you know either of them?”

“Aff.”

“What can you tell me about them?”

Gunnar shrugged and started eating. He did not seem to enjoy the food at all, which led Sigurd to believe his action was simply a means of cutting the conversation short. “Ashk dem yourshelf,” he muttered around a mouthful of tofu, and motioned to the doorway.

Sigurd turned and saw another group of warriors enter the mess hall. It consisted primarily of Julian's Binary, most of whom, including the Star Captain, were freeborns. Hesitantly, two of the warriors broke away from the others.

The first was a tall, lanky woman whose straight black hair was flecked in a few places with silver. That was an uncommon sight, for the Clans generally despised age. Most warriors would much rather dye their hair or shave it off entirely, than let it grey. She was not unusual-looking otherwise, and carried herself with an air of tired indifference.

Walking beside her, but not really with her, was a young man. He moved with a kind of forced intensity, quite in opposition to the way his comrade strolled across the room. He had a freckled complexion and slightly rounded features, which made him look somewhat younger than his codex indicated. He stopped about half a meter back from Sigurd. He began to salute, but then seemed to remember they were indoors, and lowered his arm back to his side.

“Star Commander.”

The woman rolled her eyes at the younger warrior, and took a seat next to Gunnar. She did not offer to speak.

“MechWarriors Irene and Alger.” Unlike their Starmates, these two were trueborn warriors. It seemed odd that he should be given all trues to command, but perhaps it was simply a matter of equivalent exchange. Sigurd gestured for Alger to sit, and then studied Irene a moment more. He felt almost positive that she was one of the warriors who had slugged him during yesterday's fracas. There was no point in bringing it up, though.

No one spoke for some time. Had they been Spherers, Sigurd would have easily thought of something to say. He would have tried to raise their confidence in him somehow, or at least joked with them. Amongst Clan warriors, either move would probably be seen as some kind of weakness.

Finally, he decided upon a topic they could all agree on.

“Tell me about your BattleMechs.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the hunt begins.

Chapter 22

 

Sigurd did not much care for space travel. He was not a cosmophobe, and was not prone to motion sickness or transit disorientation syndrome. He simply did not like it. During his time as a mercenary, he had learned to move and work sufficiently in microgravity, but it went entirely against his instincts. His lancemate Ace, who was much more acclimatized to such travel, had often teased him about it. The man had laughingly called him a “landlubber” (whatever that meant) for preferring the feeling of ground beneath his feet, and insisted that moving around in space was just like swimming. It was not at all swimming. Swimming was enjoyable.

He tried to hold himself steady, keeping his feet hooked under a rail on the wall, while he inspected the _Pouncer_. One of the equilibrator assemblies in its left leg had come free of the yoke. Sigurd unhooked his feet and, with a gentle push against the wall, propelled himself forward. He grabbed the edge of an armor panel to anchor himself, then rotated his hips towards the 'Mech until the magnet soles on his boots sucked his feet against the _Pouncer_ _'s_ hull.

Above him, the technicians smirked at his clumsy performance when they thought he was not looking. One of them leapt from the _Pouncer_ _'s_ shoulder straight to the catwalk above, then flipped over midway so that she landed standing “up” on the underside of it with ease. Sigurd watched as another tech drifted vertically through the hangar and caught a spinning wrench, all without changing his own trajectory. Many of the most graceful of the techs, he noticed, seemed to be AeroSpacer washouts. They had probably received micrograv training in their sibkos, which made them quite suited for this environment.

Sigurd sidled down to the open armor panel on the 'Mech's leg and swung himself down into it. Even with the forward panel open, it was a close fit between the hydraulics and myomer bundles. The work clothes he wore felt heavy and restrictive now that he had become used to the Wolf fatigues. Nevertheless, he squeezed between the _Pouncer's_ equilibrator and the armor wall, and began to press the mechanism back into its yoke.

His surkai was to help the technicians with their work. Everyone who had participated in the earlier brawl was punished in a similar manner, and given various technical or manual labor. Akela had been greatly upset by the unusual break in discipline amongst his warriors. The Clans often meted out corporal punishment for offenses, but the Star Colonel knew subcaste work would chasten them more than any beating. It also had the advantage of hastening the repair work, ensuring that all would be ready by the time they reached their destination. Furthermore, the punishment fit the crime: since they had damaged Clan property— _i.e._ , one another—they must repair Clan property.

Everyone hated this work, but none complained. Within the Clans, forgiveness, like all things, must be earned. Every warrior completed their assigned tasks quickly and efficiently. It did not even occur to them to do otherwise, for only by giving their best effort could they regain honor.

Sigurd double-checked the equilibrator after moving it back into place, then examined the attached cables carefully. He slowly made his way back out of the _Pouncer_ _'s_ chassis, then closed the access panel. Sigurd looked up (or was it down?) at the chief tech assigned to Akela's machine and waved, signaling that he was finished. He moved to his next task.

Pushing off of the _Pounce_ _r_ gently, he let himself “fall” laterally towards the part of the hangar where the Elementals' battle armor was kept. He had not been given any repairs to do on that equipment, only minor cleaning work on the weapons and exterior joints. The armor was far too sophisticated to be entrusted to someone unskilled in its functions. Sigurd was not at all insulted by that; he would not have trusted himself with such work, either.

Carefully, he grasped a rail to stop himself, and then moved down to look over the armor's lump of a head. He began his inspection with the visor, checking for cracks where the ferroglass met the suit hull. He planted his boots on its torso to steady himself, and began running his fingers along the visor's edges to check the seal.

Suddenly, he felt something heavy land on his shoulder. Sigurd sprang away instinctively, and tried to twist back to face whatever had touched him. He had only succeeded in awkwardly rolling himself over, however, and became “stranded” in midair. He craned his head back towards where he had been, and saw Point Commander Tammi looking back at him, floating upside down.

He reached out as far as he could and grabbed for the nearest railing, but missed. The motion of his swipe spun him around in place. Sigurd crossed his arms and sighed, realizing he had just lost any semblance of dignity.

“What can I do for you, Point Commander?”

“I came to see if you would like assistance, ovkhan.” She anchored herself to the armor with one boot, then reached out and took Sigurd's hand as he spun around to face her.

“Thank you,” he replied as she towed him back towards the armor, “but there is no need. You are not performing surkai.” The Point Commander had actually been one of the warriors who helped Elaine and Calix break up the fight.

She drew herself down into a compressed, crouching sort of pose. “No, but it is my armor you are working on. I should like to help.”

He merely nodded his assent, and tried to rotate himself into a more natural position.

“Here. Let me show you how to check the exhaust apertures.” She pushed herself down to the suit's jumpjet ports. Tammi glanced up at him as he moved to join her, and frowned. “You look uncomfortable.”

“Is it that obvious?” He anchored himself to the suit, and retrieved the maintenance tools from his belt. “Space is... not really my element.”

“What is?”

“Almost anything else. I prefer planets.”

She nodded and rolled over lazily to take the brush that he offered. “Some greenery in your quarters might help.”

“Some _what?_ What is that?”

The Elemental looked at him as if he were completely daft. “Greenery? Plants?”

“Oh.” He had never heard that term before, which was unsurprising. All the plants on his homeworld were red, and certainly no one referred to that foliage as _reddery_.

“Not to worry, Star Commander.” Her expression changed to one of intense concentration as she began to examine her armor. “We will be on the ground soon enough.”

As soon as she said it, lights flashed in the bay and a klaxon blared. The noise was, quite intentionally, sufficient to wake everyone on board. These warnings marked the beginning of the end of their chase.

“Attention, all personnel. Prepare for jump sequence. ETD, ten minutes.”

 

* * * * *

 

A shiver traveled up through the _Stormcrow's_ feet and into its legs from the DropShip's fiercely burning engines. Sigurd closed his eyes and steadied his breathing as the ship boiled through the upper atmosphere. He hated the descent. Few MechWarriors cared for this part of combat operations, since they had no control over it, but it was much easier on the nerves than orbital insertion. The Wolves' JumpShip had slammed into this backwater system's zenith point earlier in the day and, much to their surprise, found no other space-bound ships. It appeared that the mercenaries' interstellar transport was gone, and they had made planetfall in order to hide. The Thirteenth followed.

Sigurd glanced from side to side through the _Stormcrow's_ viewport, watching his subordinates. Gunnar's _Mad_ _Dog_ was still, except for the vibrations of the ship. Irene, who piloted a _Glass_ _Spider_ , seemed content to let her 'Mech's massive gun arms hang casually at its sides. The second variant of the machine did away with the twin gauss rifles of its progenitor, the _Galahad_ , and instead was crammed full of pulse lasers for every range and occasion.

He was a little concerned that Irene would have difficulty keeping up with the rest of them, since her top speed was only 65 km/h. That had not been an issue when she was part of Julian's Star, for two of her Starmates had also piloted _Glass_ _Spiders_. (The Wolf Clan, Sigurd noted, had a real taste for this version of it.) He planned to utilize Irene in a fire support role, where her lower speed would be less of a hindrance.

The last in line was Alger's machine. While Clan-designed 'Mechs tended to favor a more alien aesthetic than the typically humanoid BattleMechs of the InnerSphere, the _Lobo_ was even more peculiar-looking than most. It had slim, dog-like legs that ended in what Sigurd could only think to describe as goat hooves. A name for the shape of its torso completely eluded him. “Wedge” came nearest, but “weird” seemed better. It was fast, which pleased him, and mounted some relatively new technology: a trio of heavy lasers and two sets of the Clans' advanced tactical missile systems.

Given a choice, he would not have picked this composition of 'Mechs for his Star. Then again, he would not have picked a _Stormcrow_ for himself, and he had quickly grown to like the Omni. He would try to make this work.

Sigurd tapped the _Stormcrow's_ pedals experimentally, pawing at the hangar floor first with its left foot and then with the right. They still had several minutes until landing, but he wanted to be ready to move. The whole of Skirmisher Binary was chomping at the bit. Even MechWarrior Irene, who never seemed excited about anything, began to stiffen her _Glass_ _Spider's_ posture as the ship made its descent. Lorna's Star would be first down the ramp, with her trio of fast mediums creating a spearhead, and the two heavies following. His own Star was tasked with supporting hers.

They hit the halfway point, and the commline crackled. “Be ready to move, on my order, Star Commander,” Lorna advised over the officers' channel. “Once we land, I want everyone out of this ship, ASAP.”

“Aff, Star Captain.”

“Have you any insight to offer on the mercenaries?”

He paused, unsure if she was asking this honestly, or if she meant the question as a barb about his past. “None specific to these, Star Captain,” he replied carefully. “I would advise that we keep our guard up, though. Their machines are inferior, but we have them cornered. They will probably resort to trickery and other dishonorable tactics.”

“Such as?”

“Back on Traion, one of the rebel tanks rammed MechWarrior Gunnar's _Mad_ _Dog_. Mercenaries typically prefer retreat to death. However, this unit has no way to leave the planet, and they may be desperate,” he said. “I would not put ramming and other suicidal tactics past them.”

“I see.”

The comm fell silent, but only for a moment.

“Remind me, sir...” Gunnar began, speaking over the Star-wide frequency. He always put an unnatural stress on the word “sir,” and used Sigurd's rank and name as seldom as possible. He had not shown open defiance since their duel almost a month ago, but he still made it clear that he would not wholly yield. “What formation shall we assume? A vee-formation, quiaff?”

Sigurd frowned. Lorna may not have meant anything with her questions, but her sibkin certainly did. Gunnar was trying to suggest that Sigurd would lead from behind. “A _wedge_ formation,” he corrected. “I think you may have been looking at the briefing materials upside-down, MechWarrior.” He put his own emphasis on the last word, reminding the other man of his rank.

Gunnar did not reply.

“Irene, Alger. Any questions?”

“No, ovkhan.”

“Negative.”

The ship gave another shudder as it hit turbulence, reminding him that they were still in the midst of their descent. The Wolves' AeroSpace fighters had already launched, and Star Commander Sehy was busy clearing the landing zone. Once the ships were on the ground, the pilots would perform a recon-in-force. He wondered if the mercenaries had detected the Thirteenth yet, and what they might be thinking. He would like to see the look on their faces when they realized an entire Cluster had been dispatched to hunt them.

A savage grin worked its way onto Sigurd's face. Anticipation flooded into his system, washing away all his nervousness. He no longer worried about the drop, for it was out of his hands. His focus went instead to his Star and their mission. The Thirteenth was a solid unit, and the men and women in it were good warriors. He would have to win their trust, though. The MechWarriors serving with him needed to see that he was capable of leading them, and the other officers needed to see that he was capable of following orders and acting in unison with the rest of the Cluster.

The Thirteenth Wolf Regulars were in the process of being reforged after the events preceding his capture. At the beginning of the year, they had lost badly to the Hell's Horses on Steelton. Before that, they had lost their CO. For years, the Wolf Clan had focused on holding off the Ghost Bears and Jade Falcons, as well as continuing their bouts with the Lyrans. When the Horses came stampeding in from the coreward part of the Wolf occupation zone, only garrison units were in place to face front-line Galaxies. The battles had been fierce, but the Wolf garrisons could not hold against the crush of the other Clan's incursion.

One such unit, Omega Galaxy, had been gobbled up almost entirely when the Horses staged a Harvest Trial for it. In late summer, the Wolf khans finally began to turn the tide by diverting some of their own front-line troops to hold the line and even retake a few worlds. The Thirteenth and other maimed Clusters were thus given a moment to breathe.

Sigurd expected these recent events were part of the reason the Traionites and their mercenary allies had thought they could wrest control of the planet away from the Wolves. They believed the Clan was too busy fighting the Horses to be able to deal with one little rebellion. Apparently, none of them had considered what would happen once their conquerors returned from shoring up the gates.

Despite their losses, the Cluster was in better shape now, than before. Previously, this had been a pure 'Mech unit. Upon assuming command, Akela had replaced one of the unit's lost Binaries with Elaine Sradac's Nova, in order to more effectively deal with the combined-arms tactics of their new, unwanted neighbors. That brought its own problems, though, as both the MechWarriors and Elementals tried to adjust to one another. He understood now that Elaine's speech about arrogant steeds had not come out of the blue.

“Star Commander Sehy reports the LZ is clear,” Lorna said. “No sign of the mercenaries, yet.”

“I think the Star Colonel will be displeased with that,” Sigurd mused. He noted the minutes until landing for the millionth time, and rolled his shoulders to loosen his muscles.

“Why do you say that?”

“I got the impression he would have preferred us to land much closer.” Sigurd chuckled a little to himself. “He mentioned something about wanting to see how they liked having a _Union_ dropped on _their_ heads.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a storm is brewing.

Chapter 23

 

From orbit, the planet looked pleasant enough. It was a little warm, according to scans, but the rock was blue and brown and white-marbled in the way that humans preferred. Sigurd had been puzzled as to why it was not inhabited, until he had called up the environmental details. While this world was nominally assigned a number based on its position in the system, an older document called it Salt Lick. The name was apt.

As it turned out, all the lovely blue swirls seen from orbit had an extremely high concentration of salt. In fact, some of the white streaks, which Sigurd had initially taken for clouds, were salt flats left where water had receded long ago. There were no true plants, only various types of black and purple algae, marring the surface like bruises. Neither did there seem to be any animals, unless one opted to count large bacterial colonies and fungi. Once the first explorers discovered that this overly-saline world was not only unpleasant but also metal-poor, any desire to settle it had vanished, and it was largely forgotten.

Sigurd edged past Alger's _Lobo_ , and trotted down the DropShip ramp—first. Ordinarily, he would not have made a show of that, but the others needed to understand that he would be at the front to set their pace. Today was all about making impressions. Alger was probably used to taking a forward position in his previous Star, but backed off a little now and cruised up alongside Sigurd's _Stormcrow_ in the four o'clock position. Gunnar, whose _Mad_ _Dog_ was slower, could not actually overtake him and fell in at his eight. Irene exited the DropShip last, with the least enthusiasm, and took up her position behind Gunnar.

Their ship had landed in a kind of marsh full of weird salt spires, small islands and gooey kelp. The place seemed altogether primordial. Lorna's Star, which had already unloaded, forged ahead through the slimy-looking water. One of the _Shadow_ _Cat_ _s_ , no doubt Lorna herself, was speeding ahead of the rest. Brine splashed up with each step it took, and a little trail formed where the wake of her Omni's movement parted the algae. Fortunately the marsh was only a couple meters deep, and so the Binary's speed was not greatly impaired.

The marsh bed was fairly solid here, but Sigurd suspected there were mires or sink holes in it, somewhere. Every now and then, he felt a slight tug on his _Stormcrow's_ feet, where the mud created suction. He made for one of the rocky, salt-encrusted ridges poking up through the water. Alger followed without prompting, but the other two did not correct their course.

Sigurd opened the comm. “Gunnar, Irene. Form up.”

The _Glass_ _Spider_ jerked a little, and tightened its movements to fall into place. Gunnar responded more leisurely, and merely strolled back into Sigurd's eight o'clock.

“Try to stay on solid ground,” he advised the Star. “I do not trust the marsh.”

“Ah, yes. Marshes are well-known for their devious ways,” Gunnar mused. “Any other cautions, sir? I think the algae looks suspicious, too.”

“What?” the _Lobo_ pilot piped up.

“I said _algae_ , not _Alger_. Clean out your ears, sib-brat.”

“Clear the comm,” Sigurd snapped. “I want everyone on alert.”

Silence fell, except for the usual noise of the 'Mechs, and the Star pressed onwards. There was a kind of haze in the atmosphere, but no fog, and visibility was fairly good. The sun cast long, deep shadows across the rocks and water, which made the whole expanse before them seem even bleaker. There would be light for a while yet: sunset would not come for another two hours. Lorna had expressed confidence that they could find the mercenaries before then.

The plan for this engagement was simple enough. Skirmisher Binary, which was Lorna's, had landed in the east and was tasked with pushing west, and Julian's Support Binary was moving roughly north-ish. Opposite them, the Command Binary and Elaine's Nova were moving southeast. They would meet in the middle, and grind the mercenaries into dust. Simple and, hopefully, effective.

The biggest potential problem was that their prey might slip through the net while it was still tightening around them. Lorna had some plans of her own, for that possibility. If the mercs started to get loose, she and the four fastest 'Mechs from Skirmisher Binary would break off into a new Star, and corral them; Sigurd would remain with the slower units, to keep them on task. Additionally, both of them were expected to defer to Julian, if things got dicey.

It had surprised Julian as much as anyone when the Star Colonel gave that edict during the briefing. Trueborns tended to be afforded higher status than freeborns of the same rank. However, Julian had the most command experience of the two, which made him the practical choice for overall lead. The arrangement seemed satisfactory to Julian, and if Lorna was upset about playing second fiddle, she never betrayed the fact.

Sigurd pitched the _Stormcrow's_ torso upwards as a pair of lights burned in the sky above the sunset. It was Sehy and his wingman. Sunlight glinted off a third object, slower-moving and further away. The Jagatais swooped at it and the slower thing plummeted out of the air, like raptors knocking a songbird from the sky.

“Found a few of them,” the lead pilot reported over the command frequency. “VTOL patrol eliminated. Medium BattleMech lance about three klicks west. Marking it nav alpha.”

“Understood,” Lorna said. “Composition?”

“ _Centurion_ , _Dervish_ , two _Griffins_.”

“Copy. Keep them busy for us.”

_Nine against four? This could be quick,_ Sigurd thought to himself. He did not really care how they disposed of the mercenaries—whether it was a ratio of one-to-one, or twenty-to-one—but he doubted his subordinates would be pleased with the lack of challenge.

“Aff,” Sehy replied. “We will break off once you arrive. Over and out.”

The fighters had been tasked with eliminating the mercenaries' air assets and softening up their DropShips. The air-to-air battle would probably be over by the time the 'Mechs arrived. The Wolf Jagatais did a quick wingover, and the light of their engines disappeared again.

Sigurd keyed the comm to his own Star as he switched to the new nav point. “We have our targets. ETA, three minutes. Ready your weapons.”

“Aff!” all three cried at once.

Lorna's voice broke in. “As soon as we are in range, fire at will, Star Commander.”

“Aff, ovkhan.” Sigurd switched back to his own Star's frequency. “Alger, open up with your ATMs the moment you have a good shot. I want to get their attention.”

The _Lobo_ twisted to face him, which was a little unsettling since it had no face. “Aff, ovkhan.”

To his left, Lorna's Star had picked up speed. Cenek's _Linebacker_ and a _Timber_ _Wolf_ thundered past as the five lead 'Mechs sprinted ahead. Sigurd kept to the cruising pace he had set, in order to ensure that Irene was not left too far behind. By sticking to the dry ground, they could still remain fairly close to the others.

It was not long until the forward elements opened fire. “Contact!” Lorna barked, over the crack of her gauss rifle. The rest of her Star soon followed up with their own weapons.

“Keep formation,” he reminded his warriors.

“I just saw something move,” Irene reported, suddenly. “Behind us.”

“Probably an animal,” Gunnar muttered.

_But there are no animals_.

Just as he began to turn, a hail of missiles rained down around them. In the aft section of his display, Sigurd could see something blocky ripping across the marsh, losing chunks of the seaweed and mud that had concealed it.

“Tanks!” Irene exclaimed.

Sigurd whirled his 'Mech around to face them, and opened a channel to Lorna. “Star Captain, the mercenaries have flanked us.”

“ _What?_ ”

“They hid tanks in the marshes. Moving to engage. Over.”

“Aff, I will relay that to Julian. My Star will handle the 'Mechs. Out.”

Irene flipped her _Glass_ _Spider's_ arms over to lay down fire on the tank as it crossed her rear arc, which seemed to catch it by surprise. Something like a tarp flew up from it as it swerved, cast off now that the vehicle was moving. Another object, which initially looked like part of a sandspit, began to move further afield. Sigurd turned to pursue.

“Alger, stay with me. Gunnar, join Irene,” he ordered. As he moved forward, his computer picked up one of the armored vehicles and identified it. “Looks like they have _Rommels_. Keep your distance.”

Sigurd inhaled sharply as he scanned the marsh. The mercenaries had not been here long, but they had time enough to devise good camouflage. Another tank broke from cover and began to slog through the marsh after the first. Gunnar's pulse lasers hammered into the side of one, while Alger put in a shot to the next with his ATMs.

_Two_ Rommels _. Half a lance,_ Sigurd calculated. “Watch for more of these _stravags_.”

His subordinates chorused acknowledgment over the din of weapons fire. The tanks were fighting at-range, trying to wear them down with missiles. Sigurd lit off a salvo of his own LRMs at one of the _Rommels_. He saw some armor splinter off the tank's hull, but it would take a lot of work to crack them open. A single LRM-20 was not going to be sufficient. He needed to move into medium range, where he could make use of his pulse lasers. If he closed within three hundred meters, however, the tanks would easily tear him apart with their AC/20s.

By this time, the Star's heavy 'Mechs had grouped together, and Alger was back at his side. The two of them circled wide around the tanks, and began to lay down more missile fire. Their combined effort did more damage, but only seemed to incense the tankers. The _Rommel_ they had targeted hit a relatively flat stretch of marsh and sped straight at them, trying to close the gap in order to use its autocannon. While the shallow water was not much hindrance to bipedal machines like BattleMechs, it slowed the tank's advance. Sigurd held his position for a moment, lining up a clear shot, and carved into it with his lasers. As soon as he had done that, he fell back to stay out of the _Rommel's_ grasp.

“Star Commander! More tanks on our three o'clock,” Alger reported. “Four _Manticores_.”

“Aff, open fire. Gunnar, Irene, take care of the _Rommels_.” Sigurd twisted the _Stormcrow's_ torso to the right, and moved his targeting reticule over one of the newcomers.

_They are trying to pin us in._

More missiles hit his 'Mech, this time from a _Manticore_. Alger was already eating away at one of the furthest ones with his extended-range missiles. Behind them, the _Glass_ _Spider_ and _Mad_ _Dog_ had set to work shredding their own targets. That seemed to account for all the tanks in the immediate vicinity. Both halves of the Star were making progress, but it was slow and they were slightly outnumbered.

They cantered back and forth through the marsh, trading shots and gradually wearing down the tanks. Sigurd weaved through the outcrops of salt-white rock, and Alger remained close. One of the _Manticores_ slid to a halt in the muck as their missiles ripped open its side. It was immobilized and its turret was locked, but the crew continued to fire rather than abandon the tank.

On one hand, that seemed foolish. Then again, they would probably be no safer if they left the vehicle. Sigurd would not put it past the other warriors to cut down the tankers and, unlike Point Commander Jay, he was not particularly inclined to stop his subordinates from doing so.

He ignored the immobile tank for the moment, and focused on the other three _Manticores_. Alger had moved a little further afield to pursue one, which he seemed to have injured, and began to climb a 'Mech-sized island of rock. In the far edge of his displays, Sigurd could see that two of Lorna's 'Mechs were moving in the same direction. In fact, they were firing in that direction, as well.

Just as Alger made it halfway up the rocks, a _Centurion_ appeared at the crest. It looked down at the _Lobo_ and shifted its weight onto one leg, readying for a kick.

Sigurd felt his stomach do a flip-flop as he slammed the throttle to a stop and yanked the control stick to bring the _Stormcrow_ around. The seconds felt eternal, and at every moment, he could picture the _Centurion_ putting its foot through his Starmate's cockpit. Alger saw the 'Mech at the same time he did, and raised the _Lobo's_ guns. The gold beams of its heavy lasers pulsed against the enemy machine, but the _Centurion's_ leg was already swinging forward. Sigurd brought his crosshairs to rest on BattleMech, and mashed the controls for all of his weapons at once.

Everything seemed so fast, yet strangely slow. A blackened hulk of metal flew through the air, hurtling over the _Stormcrow's_ head, and landed in the marsh behind him. Then—or maybe before that, who could tell?—the _Centurion_ burst apart, flames pushing out from the inside. One of them had sawed off BattleMech's leg, while the other had hit its ammo bins. A little dark thing leapt from the machine's head as the fire engulfed its body, and the carcass tumbled down the rocks into the marsh. The pilot had ejected successfully.

Sigurd tracked the ejection seat with his crosshairs. The mercenary had tried to kill one of his Starmates. He heard a sharp howl of anger in the back of his mind, but let his finger off the trigger. His heat levels were dangerously high from the alpha strike, and he could not afford to fire until they were back under control. Even with the cooling suit, he found himself panting in the stifling heat. They would pick up the mercenary later, assuming he or she survived the landing.

Alger, unfazed, clambered up the rock to the greasy stain where the _Centurion_ had been, without the least acknowledgment of the peril he faced mere moments ago. There was no time for it. He turned and opened fire on a _Manticore_.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the hammer falls.

Chapter 24

 

While the waste heat slowly seeped from the _Stormcrow's_ cockpit, Sigurd moved clockwise around the island to help Alger deal with a _Manticore_. As they set upon that tank, Irene reported one of the _Rommels_ destroyed. Three down, seven to go. Akela and Julian's Binaries would be arriving soon, driving their prey ahead of them. His Star needed to be ready to assist whomever needed it.

Sigurd took in the rest of the battlefield quickly as he guided his _Stormcrow_ over the sandbars. The mercenaries had intended to crush his Star and Lorna's between their own lances, but that plan was rapidly coming undone. Together, the mercs might have presented a strong firing line. By splitting apart, they had only succeeded in making themselves easier to pick off. He and Alger continued pushing the _Manticores_ back, while Gunnar and Lorna kept the remaining _Rommel_ pinned down.

Cenek cut across his path suddenly, followed by the _Timber_ _Wolf_. The two of them speared the _Manticore_ he had set his sights on. In an inter-Clan conflict, deliberate target-stealing could be grounds for a duel. Mercenary tanks were hardly worth squabbling over, though. Sigurd moved on without complaint, and finished off the tank that had become immobilized earlier. The two heavy Omnis headed east, sloshing through a series of tide pools, and unloaded their weapons after a _Dervish_.

All three of the mercenaries' remaining BattleMechs were jump-capable. They made good use of that skill, and hopped amongst the rock spires to elude Lorna's non-jumping 'Mechs. Breslen, her _Pouncer_ pilot, had been taxing his heat sinks with successive bursts of his ER PPCs. He began to withdraw momentarily, and ducked behind some rocks only to find himself face-to-face with one of the _Griffins_. Unable to fire, and slow from overheating, the 40-tonner reeled under the mercenary's assault. As if blistering the Clansman's armor was not enough, the larger BattleMech landed a punch to the _Pouncer's_ right side. Lorna halted it with a well-placed shot from her gauss rifle. A loud crack echoed across the battlefield as the nickel-ferrous slug punched clean through the _Griffin's_ head. Four down, six to go.

Pressing the _Stormcrow's_ throttle to maximum, Sigurd strafed the nearest _Manticore_. Alger held position in an open area of the marsh and hammered the same tank with his ATMs. The missiles shredded one of its sides, and bits of its track scattered across the water. The hatch flew open, and the crew began to abandon the vehicle, floundering over the tank's slimy hull into the water.

“Target eliminated!” Alger reported.

While Sigurd moved to attack the next tank, he glanced back to see what progress his other Starmates were making. Two tanks and two BattleMechs remained, and the latter were rapidly falling back. Skirmisher Binary continued to push west. In the distance, the mercenaries' DropShips were visible through the evening haze that had begun to set in.

“Julian reports more hostiles moving east,” Lorna barked over the comm.

“Aff, Star Captain,” Sigurd replied. “Irene, Gunnar, hurry up with the _Rommel_.”

“Working on it,” the latter groused. “I have— _Freebirth!_ ”

Sigurd could hear a thunderous crash of missiles, which was suddenly cut short when the comm channel closed. “Gunnar?” He torso-twisted back to see the _Mad_ _Dog_ stumbling as if drunk, while the _Glass_ _Spider_ moved to cover it. “Gunnar, report!”

Slowly, the OmniMech pulled its torso up, and got its feet back under its body. A groan preceded the MechWarrior's reply. “ _Stravag_ tank hit my gyro...”

Obviously, the mechanism was not completely destroyed, or Gunnar would not have been able to recover his balance. “What is the damage?”

“Ah... My torso armor is still intact, but something must have come loose.” He gave an angry sigh. “I will not be able to run at full speed.”

“Copy that.” Sigurd turned back to the last _Manticore_ , and launched his LRMs. “Star Captain, Irene and Gunnar are lagging behind, and he has lost speed.”

“We need to shore up Julian's line,” Lorna stated. “Have Alger join me. I am sending Cora to accompany you.”

“Aff, ovkhan.” He passed the instructions along to his own Star.

Ahead of him, the _Timber_ _Wolf_ turned and cantered up to join him. He began to instruct the MechWarrior to engage the _Maticore_ , but she did so without orders. Cora's machine had a broader array of long-range weapons than his own, and it took her no time at all the punch through the dents he and Alger had made.

“Target destroyed,” she reported tersely.

Sigurd turned back to watch Gunnar and Irene land the final blows on the _Rommel_. “Cora, form up on me.”

The _Glass_ _Spider's_ legs were blackened by the algae clinging to it, but it had suffered only a nick or two from the tanks. Gunnar's _Mad_ _Dog_ looked in fairly good condition as well, though the right side of its torso was charred and slightly concave. The two MechWarriors pushed their machines to a jog, in order to meet Sigurd.

“Stay in formation,” he instructed, “but do not stay too close to one another. Tanks and VTOLs are our priority targets. Let the other Stars handle the BattleMechs.”

“You would deny us the chance to score 'Mech kills?”

Sigurd tilted his head from side to side, working out some of the stiffness in his neck, and sighed. “We have our orders, Gunnar. We will kill whatever needs to be killed, but the armor assets are priority. We are fire support, for now.”

He turned his attention to the horizon line. Already, the air had filled with smoke and laser fire. Heat waves dancing up from the ground further obscured the action ahead, but the nearest of the enemy forces had appeared on radar. Sigurd selected a Cyrano gunship that had strayed into range of their weapons.

“Cora, open fire.”

Out of the four of them, the _Timber_ _Wolf_ had the greatest reach. A pair of blue beams lanced from its hexagonal gun pods, but narrowly missed the VTOL. The _Timber_ _Wolf's_ bulbous torso pitched upwards and its guns followed as she tried to regain her tracking on the Cyrano. Before Cora could fire again, two swarms of missiles engulfed the aircraft. She torso-twisted back to see where the salvos had originated. Smoke wafted from the _Mad_ _Dog's_ missile racks.

“Heads up, Star Commander. One of them slipped past us, heading southeast,” Lorna warned him suddenly.

“Aff, ovkhan. We will catch it.” He opened a channel to his subordinates. “You just got your wish, Gunnar.”

As the four Wolf 'Mechs circled clockwise, a new signature appeared on their radar. A _Kit_ _Fox_ was running towards them, full-tilt. Its body was tan and its arms painted white in the Theta Galaxy colors, but black paint had been smeared over the Clan insignia in an act of defiance. This was their OmniMech, but not their pilot.

Sigurd lowered his crosshairs over it, waiting for a missile lock. “All Points, attack! Concentrate fire on the _Kit_ _Fox_ ,” he ordered. The Thirteenth had only one of that chassis, and his subordinates were aware that it had previously fallen into the mercs' hands. He did not need to remind them it was an enemy target, but that did not mean they were all convinced of his orders.

“Wha—? _Concentrate_ fire? Neg!” Gunnar fumed. The _Mad_ _Dog_ continued to move, but withheld its fire. “I will not engage in dezgra tactics.”

“You will do as you are _ordered_ , MechWarrior!” Sigurd barked as he sent a salvo of LRMs chasing after the light OmniMech.

The _Mad_ _Dog_ hesitated, then turned and moved into position to attack. “Aff,” Gunnar snarled in reply. He lit up the _Kit_ _Fox's_ side with his pulse lasers.

Mercenaries were, to the Clans' way of thinking, little more than bandits; such units were not nominally extended the honor of zellbrigen. The Thirteenth was permitted to use any tactics they chose, even actions normally considered dishonorable, against these adversaries. They had already been concentrating their fire on the tanks and VTOLs, and the MechWarrior had not complained then. This was not about proper Clan conduct. Gunnar was merely prodding him, trying to see if he would fold when confronted.

The _Kit_ _Fox_ stumbled as blue globs of light scorched off its armor, but it seemed to be having additional problems. It swayed strangely when it ran, as if the MechWarrior was not fully in control. When the Wolves had tried to retrieve it on Traion, one of the techs mentioned a problem with the neurohelmet. Perhaps the mercenaries' poor handiwork was making the pilot disorientated. Wearing a poorly-tuned neurohelmet could be painful or even dangerous.

Whatever was going on, it did not stop the _Kit_ _Fox_ pilot from landing two successive hits to the _Stormcrow_. The OmniMech leaned to the left as the mercenary's ER large laser shucked off the entire outside armor panel from his right arm. The computer relayed the damage calmly, and the displays reflected the new state of his machine. Sigurd leaned the stick opposite of the _Stormcrow's_ motion, realigning its torso, just in time to catch a second hit in the same arm. A pack of cluster munitions peppered the exposed endo-steel bone.

He turned quickly, keeping his right side away from the _Kit_ _Fox_ , and bolted away from his Star. “ _Scheisse_ ,” he cursed aloud as he glanced out the side of the cockpit to his mangled arm. The ammunition bins for this missiles were exposed. Sigurd broke into a run and pulled back from the others as he initiated the ammo dumping sequence. “Stay clear!” he warned them. _What a waste of perfectly good missiles._

Quickly, Sigurd began jetting his LRM ammunition, while his subordinates chased after the _Kit_ _Fox_. It tripped, and sent up a spray of white dirt as it crashed. Even lying prone, however, the _Kit_ _Fox_ was not finished with him. It raised its arm and fired its LB-X autocannon again. The initial round appeared to go wide and low, but split into pellets once it neared him. One of those pellets hit the second ammo bin.

Fire and water washed over the _Stormcrow_. The shock of the blast spun his torso left, and nearly shoved the 'Mech to the ground. Sigurd felt the tremors move through his own body, rattling his bones. A hot, stabbing spark hit him at each temple: feedback rushing into his brain from the neurohelmet. He felt himself begin to fall, and for a moment, felt outside himself. The harness snapped taut across his chest as he was thrown forward in his seat, returning his focus. He grabbed for the control stick and tightened his grip on it to hold the OmniMech steady while he fought the pain of the feedback. All the while, he heard a clatter of rock and shrapnel plinking against his armor.

The _Centurion's_ destruction had happened, it seemed, very slowly. This occurred far too quickly, and Sigurd felt lucky that his OmniMech was still standing after the explosion. The ammo bin was far enough away not to gut his 'Mech when it went up, but the blast had still taken a toll on the _Stormcrow_. The armor on the lower part of its right leg was peeled back completely in a few places.

“Star Commander?” Irene asked hesitantly.

“I am fine,” Sigurd replied hurriedly, even though his head still throbbed fiercely. He ignored the strange ache in his leg, and then quickly checked his armor readouts. The _Stormcrow's_ right arm was, surprisingly, still intact, and although the right leg's armor was weakened, the internals looked good. He pressed down on the right pedal hesitantly. _Good response time. No jerkiness._ “I am fine,” he repeated, more confidently.

“Target destroyed!” Gunnar and Cora reported almost at once. Both of their transmissions ended with a bit of a growl. They had likely been vying with one another to land the killing blow.

“Good,” Sigurd said to neither one in particular. “Form up.” He reported their progress to Lorna and pressed onward.

Above them, the Jagatai and Jenghiz fighters harried the last of the mercenaries' aircraft. The VTOLs maneuvered wildly, and often gave up returning fire altogether in order to evade. Their stunts did nothing to save them. If the Wolf pilots overshot their targets, they simply pulled a wingover or displacement roll to return. If the mercenaries avoided the fire of one, they quickly found themselves in the sights of its partner. The few merc VTOLs that had survived this far seemed to have done so by retreating into the firing arc of the two _Unions_. That did not stop Sehy's fighters, either. They merely used that time to concentrate on the DropShips' gun pods, attacking from the _Unions_ ' dead zones.

The ground battle had turned similarly vicious. Julian's Binary waded forward like an ancient army's phalanx, grinding down the mercenaries. The Star Colonel's forces were now visible, as well. The second Star in Akela's Binary stayed back some distance to provide fire support, while the first weaved among the defending 'Mechs. For this battle, Akela had traded his _Cougar_ for one of the unit's _Pouncers_. Much like the _Adder_ he seemed to have favored earlier in his career, the _Pouncer_ had two ER PPCs and a third, almost vestigial weapon. That seemed to be all he required, though. The light 'Mechs of Elaine's Nova remained behind Julian's line, away from the heat of battle. Akela was holding them in reserve until it was time to deal with the DropShips.

Of the BattleMechs they had first encountered, only the now-haggard _Dervish_ remained. Lorna had cut off its retreat towards the ships. She and Breslen chased it towards Sigurd's Star, while the rest of her units rained down fire on anything in the kill box the Wolves had created. Sigurd was unable to reach the _Dervish_ without his long-range missiles, but directed his subordinates to attack in his stead. This time, no complaints arose.

Realizing it was trapped, the _Dervish_ came to a stop, and turned to face its original pursuers. Lorna was moving quickly, as usual, but Breslen had momentarily come to a stop and perched atop an outcropping of rocks. The _Dervish_ opened fire spitefully. Its lasers missed, but the combination of missiles hit their mark. The first salvo slammed through the OmniMech's weakened armor, ripping through one of its knees, and the _Pouncer_ fell face-down on the rocks. Cora moved ahead frantically to draw the mercenary's fire, but the _Dervish_ pilot was single-minded in its desperate attempt to drag just one Clanner down with it. Even as the other 'Mechs of the Thirteenth ripped into it, the mercenary sent a renewed volley of lasers forth and hammered the fallen _Pouncer_ with its missiles.

The _Pouncer_ shook, and its cockpit hatch blew open. Breslen ejected successfully, but the angle was shallow; it was anyone's guess whether he would survive the landing. Sigurd knit his brow as he added his own fire to the fray. The _Pouncer_ had lain still as soon as it fell, and he wondered now if the Omni's computer had ejected Breslen automatically. The warrior might have been dead when the 'Mech hit the dirt.

Lorna's _Shadow_ _Cat_ torso-twisted to look back at the ruined hull of Breslen's 'Mech, while the _Dervish_ fell onto its back.

“Star Captain?” Sigurd inquired.

Her response came swiftly, and carried the same detached tone of voice he had heard when they found Zander. “The first lance is destroyed,” she informed him, “and Julian has broken the back of the heavy lance.”

Sigurd trotted after her as she led their Binary onward. “What of the lights, Star Captain?”

“They have withdrawn to cower in the shadow of their DropShips.”

The Wolves would have to keep their distance. If the ships took off, the blast from their engines would cook anything on the ground in a sizable radius. Fortunately, their weapons out-ranged those of the ships. The rest of the Cluster might reasonably expect the mercenary _Union_ _s_ to remain grounded until their own units were aboard, in order to avoid destroying their people by proximity. Sigurd, however, was skeptical. Roasting one's own MechWarriors during takeoff seemed unusually cruel, but so too did abandoning one's lance leader to bloodthirsty ex-Clan bandits.

The last of the heavy lance, a _Thunderbolt_ , fell to Julian's _Orion_ _IIC_. Only two (or, more accurately, one and one half) _Wasps_ remained, huddled next to the massive ships. A hush fell over the battlefield, and even the AeroSpace fighters broke off to slowly circle the perimeter. Akela's _Pouncer_ trotted forward and hopped up on a salt ridge, in clear view of the _Unions_ , but well out of their reach.

“I am Star Colonel Akela Kerensky of the Thirteenth Wolf Regulars,” he began, addressing them over an open frequency, so that everyone could hear. “I have been tasked by the Clan to crush you. However, I am not one to spill blood needlessly. Surrender now, and I will allow you to live.”

“We'd rather die than surrender!”

“I can arrange that,” he replied calmly. “MechWarrior Ihsan?”

A _Naga_ , the Cluster's sole assault OmniMech, stepped out from Julian's formation. It leaned back slightly, and launched a fusillade from each side of its distended torso. The artillery salvos arced high, then pounded into the hull of each ship. Sehy's fighters returned and gouged open a gun pod on the eastward ship for demonstration. The _Union_ lowered its ramp, and the two _Wasps_ scrambled inside, while the _Naga_ continued to rain down hell.

“You will leave as our bondsmen, or you will not leave at all. I will ask you once more to surrender.”

“Go fuck yourself, Clanner bastard!” came the fierce if ineloquent response.

There was a bemused chuckle from Akela's side of the comm, much in contrast to Clanners' typical reaction to such vulgarity. He switched to the Wolf-only frequency. “All Points, fire at will. Star Captain Sradac, proceed with boarding.”

“Aff!” Elaine responded enthusiastically.

Every member of the Cluster who could reach the DropShips unloaded their arsenals, and the four light 'Mechs that had thus far been held in reserve now bolted into action. As they began to close, however, smoke poured out from one of the craft's engines and a tremendous rumble shook the ground. The line fell back, and Elaine's 'Mechs moved to join them. A salvo of LRMs leapt from one of the _Unions_ , and crashed into a _Fire_ _Moth's_ back as it turned. It fell, skidding across the ground. The Elementals it carried leapt away, and dove for cover amongst the spires.

Sigurd reached for the _Stormcrow's_ throttle. “Star Captain—”

“Hold!” Lorna barked, having guessed what he would ask. “Sosimo!”

“Aff!” the other warrior replied hurriedly, before she had finished saying his name.

That was a better choice, Sigurd had to admit. The _Shadow_ _Cat_ had MASC. As it sprinted across the field, he noticed it had lost its gun arm, and was actively leaning its weight to the right, in order to compensate. Sosimo quickly met the Elementals, and they clambered onto the OmniMech's right side to help balance it out. Just as soon as they were all on board the _Cat_ , it raced back to the line. The _Union_ laid down more fire, trying to lead Sosimo, but he was out of reach before they could land a hit. The second ship's guns turned on the _Fire_ _Moth_ , which struggled to stand.

“Eject!” someone screamed. “Hadiya, eject!”

The _Fire_ _Moth's_ cockpit hatch blew open, and the ejection seat began to rise from it. Then another salvo of missiles crashed down onto the OmniMech.

The first _Union's_ engines ignited, blasting the ground beneath it and instantly vaporizing the surrounding water. The second began to lift off shortly afterwards. Akela's _Pouncer_ remained still throughout all of of this. When the ships began to climb, however, he turned away from them. The rest of the Cluster fell in behind him, and they began to withdraw.

“Star Commander Sehy,” he addressed the pilot, but gave no further command.

Apparently, none was needed. “Aff, Star Colonel,” the AeroSpacer replied.

The entire Star of fighters screamed down from the sky in a brutal strafing run on the highest ship. Its port thrusters sputtered out as the fighters' weapons flaked armor from its hull, and the _Un_ _i_ _on_ began to veer left. The captain tried to correct—too little, too late. As the second _Union_ continued to climb, the two met in midair. A horrific screech of metal echoed across the landscape, and the two ships began to sink, locked together. It was slow, at first, as they fought the pull of Salt Lick's gravity. The planet eventually won, when the fighters knocked out one ship's engines. The two _Unions_ succumbed and collapsed one atop the other.

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the dust settles.

Chapter 25

 

The heat did not bother him. It was the oppressive humidity that made this excursion miserable. He was a desert creature, used to hot days and cold nights—not being steam-cooked alive in the early evening. Sigurd wiped the back of his wrist across his forehead to keep the sweat out of his eyes, and watched the dirt on his arm turn to mud. All of the warriors on the ground had stripped down to their jumpsuits (the cooling suits only became a hindrance outside the cockpit), but they were still drenched in sweat.

Some of the Thirteenth's forces had returned to their ships. He had joined Lorna and her Starmates in looking for Breslen, and sent his own subordinates to help round up some of the tankers they had defeated. While the Elementals and other MechWarriors searched for mercenary survivors on the battlefield, there was one place no one bothered to look. To the north, in a crater of their own making, the _Unions_ lay burning. He wrinkled his nose as the acrid scent of burning fuel cut through the salty aromas of the marsh. There were  electrical and chemical fires blazing in the wreckage, and those could cause the ships' ammunition to cook off at any moment. It was too dangerous.

“Do you think anyone survived?” Alger had asked  him, just before they went their separate ways .

“Hard to say.”

“Should we check?”

“No. It is not our problem.”

He leaned against the rock he had climbed atop and scanned the horizon through his binoculars. On the ground below him, Lorna, Sosimo and Cora had fanned out to search.

“Breslen! Answer me, you surat!” Lorna called.

She paced anxiously for a moment, then resumed walking. The other two warriors continued in another direction. The tracking beacon on their comrade's ejection seat had gone out, and they were reduced to a visual search of what they thought was the right area. So far, their efforts were fruitless. Sigurd caught sight of something glittering in the sunlight after a moment, and scrambled down from the rocks to his superior.

“There is something to the east, ovkhan,” he reported. “Maybe metal?”

She snatched the binoculars away, then quickly looked in the direction he had indicated. “Sosimo! Cora! This way.” She sprinted ahead, not waiting for them to catch up. Sigurd jogged up alongside her. He kept a quick pace but was not so hopeful. Breslen had made no contact with the rest of the unit, and that was serious cause for concern. In the best case scenario, they would find the man either alive or dead, and not halfway between the two states.

Elaine's Point had already found the other downed MechWarrior, Hadiya. Or rather, they found what was left of Hadiya. Little remained of the _Fire_ _Moth_ after the _Union's_ missile salvos were through with it, and one of the warheads had made a direct hit on the cockpit before the ejection seat could clear the blast. Elaine was furious about losing her best pilot and the Cluster's sole _Fire_ _Moth_ in one stroke.

After a short jaunt across the salt flat, Sigurd and Lorna found what they were looking for. Breslen lay completely still, strapped into the ejection seat. Lorna shoved past Sigurd and raced up to the other man's body. She drew her knife and quickly to cut him loose from the harness, then pressed her fingers to his neck.

After what seemed like a very slow minute, she looked back at Sigurd and frowned. “Help me get him out of the cooling suit.”

He nodded and crouched down beside her. Cooling suits were designed to double as protective clothing, and were therefore very tough and durable. There were a few points on the suit, however, that were meant to be cut in case a warrior needed to free themselves from the bulky outfit. Sigurd and Lorna sliced through these rapidly. Breslen had not been out in the elements very long, but lying unconscious and trapped in his suit, he was already overheating.

Once they had him free, Lorna began to inspect his wounds, starting with his head. Sigurd took the canteen from the man's side and carefully poured some water over his forehead and wrists to help cool him.

“Stravag,” the Star Captain muttered, lifting Breslen's left leg. It looked as though his ankle had been smashed in the landing. His lower leg was bruised, too, but it was impossible to tell at the moment if it was actually fractured. “This could put him out of action for months.”

_Assuming it can be repaired,_ Sigurd mused. The break looked severe. He traced his fingers over Breslen's chest and sides carefully, trying to feel for dislocated ribs. Although Breslen was knocked out, his breathing seemed normal, which they took as a good sign. Both of his arms looked fine, as well.

Lorna tapped her headset and hailed the med techs. “They are on their way.” She paused for a moment, listening to their reply. “Seems they picked up some of the mercenaries, already.”

“How many?”

“Five, so far. A tank crew and the _Centurion_ pilot. They—” Again, she paused to listen. “Hm. The last one was trouble.”

“Should I ask?”

“The mercenary punched Gunnar.”

His eyebrows went up. “And miraculously survived that decision, quiaff?”

“Barely. Gunnar tried to drown him.”

 

* * * * *

 

“Looks like the stabilizer pressure plate shifted,” the technician mused. She turned and looked back at the _Mad_ _Dog_ , scanning it critically with overly-large eyes. “Should be less than a week to fix everything, Star Commander. The armor will not take long to patch up.”

He nodded and accepted the data pad she offered him. “What of the _Stormcrow_?” He tapped through the checklist of repairs, denoting that he had been informed of the work.

The technician hesitated. “Well, the good news is that the missile launcher in the right arm is intact. The myomers are shredded, though, so we'll have to thread in new ones. That will take some time. All the servos need to be recalibrated, as well. The leg just needs new armor.”

“Do what you can.” Sigurd handed the data pad back to her, and she took her leave.

As he turned, he noticed Gunnar and Irene standing at the other end of the hangar—apparently arguing. She stood with her arms akimbo, conveying a general sense of displeasure, while Gunnar gestured broadly. Finally, she shook her head and left. Gunnar sulked off in the opposite direction, coming to inspect the _Mad_ _Dog_.

The skin around his left eye was swollen and bruised. There were still traces of mud and purplish algae clinging to his skin, and his jumpsuit had a thin layer of white from the waist down, where he had been in the saline waters. Sigurd had moved showering to the top of his own rather long to-do list, upon returning to the ship. Wading around in the marsh made him smell like an aquarium, and he had felt like one, too. He had probably looked as comically disheveled as Gunnar did now.

The MechWarrior approached, and they each regarded one another for a moment.

“You let the mercenary live,” Sigurd remarked.

Gunnar scowled. “Irene dragged him away from me.” He reached up and picked some seaweed out of his hair as he glanced up at his OmniMech. “Will the repairs take long?”

“Neg, not long.”

Gunnar nodded, and turned around to head for the upper decks of the ship.

“Before you go...” Sigurd called.

The MechWarrior's shoulders sagged briefly, and he stopped. “Yes, sir?”

Now that the excitement and energy of battle had worn off, the sharpness had gone out of his tone. Instead, there was just a kind of surly indifference, which required less effort. After a little rest, he would probably be just as snappish as ever.

“I _know_ you were paying attention during the briefing,” Sigurd said, walking up to him, “and I know you heard the Star Colonel authorize combined fire. I will not have you attempting to undermine my orders in the midst of battle.”

Gunnar looked away, crossing his arms over his chest. Then, he perked up suddenly and smiled a little. “I apologize for my conduct, sir. I wish to invoke surkai.”

_Nice try._ He smiled as well, but only inwardly. “No.”

“No?” Gunnar scowled at him. “I have admitted my mistake.”

“Do you think I know nothing of Clan ways? You have no remorse for your actions. You just want to perform surkai so I will be forced to forgive you.”

“This is improper. You are supposed to grant me surkairede.”

Sigurd allowed the grin he had been suppressing to make itself visible. “Then go explain your mistake to Lorna. Or better yet, the Star Colonel. Maybe Star Captain Julian would like to hear how sorry you are for questioning your _freebirth_ commander's judgement.”

His green eyes flashed angrily, but his body language suddenly became very closed. “Fine. Being in your Star is punishment enough, anyway.”

For a moment, Sigurd considered telling the warrior why he was given this assignment. _You are not here to be punished. You are here to be sharpened, to be made better,_ _same as I_ _. Because Akela thinks we belong together._ He furrowed his brow. Maybe it was better that Gunnar remained in the dark about this, lest some kind of observer effect come into play.

“I suppose it is,” he agreed, finally.

He let the MechWarrior leave with that, then sat down on the _Stormcrow's_ foot and began writing up notes for his report. He omitted Gunnar's insubordination. If those transgressions went on record, Gunnar would have the opportunity to call a Trial of Refusal over it. That, Sigurd felt, would simply worsen the situation. No, the thing to do was to let Gunnar have his anger, to burn as hot as he liked, and wear himself out.

The other two MechWarriors in his Star had performed to his satisfaction. Alger did not seem to like this assignment very well, which was to be expected. He was young and trueborn, and like the rest of the Cluster, a reliable Crusader. Irene was probably not terribly thrilled about it, either, but she was aging. The detached, somewhat tired way she regarded everything suggested that she was merely content not to be reassigned to a solahma unit. Regardless of how the two warriors viewed Sigurd, they had reacted quickly, fought well, and followed his orders without complaint. He made certain to note that Irene had discovered the tanks.

Tomorrow's debriefing would be probably be short. The Wolves had suffered few casualties, and the operation had mostly gone according to plan. Sigurd expected they would remain on Salt Lick only for as long as it took the vessel that brought them here to recharge its jump drive. He had no idea where they would go, after that. A few months before, that might have been important to him. Now, it no longer seemed to matter. They would go where the Keshik sent them, and they would fight whomever the Keshik told them to fight with whatever tools they were given. That was all there was to it.

_The will of the Keshik is the will of the Clan._

For the present, he need only concern himself with today, and maybe a little of the next day. Following the debriefing, they would begin questioning the captured mercenaries. He grimaced and shuddered a little, recalling his own ordeal. It would be strange to stand on the other side of the glass in the interrogation room.

“ Star Commander.”

He looked up quickly, and saw Lorna approach. “Yes, ovkhan?” He hopped down from his perch on the _Stormcrow_ to the hangar floor in front of her.

“I was wondering if we might meet in my quarters after the briefing tonight,” she said, clasping her hands together behind her back.

Sigurd bit his lip softly and unconsciously drew back from her by half a step. “You wish to discuss the battle further, quiaff?”

Lorna appeared bemused at his reply, and shook her head. “Neg, to couple.”

He searched her face for a moment. While he had sensed her meaning the first time, he still did not quite believe what she was asking him. Sigurd had grown accustomed to the Clans' direct and liberal attitude towards sex, but he did not expect it to be aimed at him.

“With respect, I had the impression you did not like me.”

“Hmm...” Lorna shook her head. “I admit, I was irritated when you replaced Cenek, but no longer. He and Gunnar can keep playing at meaningless rivalries, like sibko brats, if they want. I have decided to stay out of it.” She reached out and lifted his chin gently, so that his gaze met hers. It was an atypical gesture for a Clanner, and certainly not an affectionate one on Lorna's part. She seemed to intend it to convey some measure of reassurance. “You and I are part of the same Binary. We should be friends, quiaff?”

He moved her hand away gently. “Aff. I would like that, Star Captain, but...”

Although Sigurd hesitated in his speech, his mind raced. Debates for and against materialized one after the other, and then evaporated just as quickly. None of the arguments against this overture really had anything to do with Lorna herself, but he was unsure how to communicate that. While he was not certain that he wished to accept this particular olive branch, he had no desire to throw it back in her face.

To be so close, so intimate, so _vulnerable_ with someone else... He suppressed a shudder. Besides his own aversion to sex, there was the matter of how culturally different they were. He had been learning Clan ways, but this was a rather different aspect. Whether she realized it or not, the fact remained that n either of them had any idea what the other would want or expect. What if he did something she did not like? What if _she_ did something that _he_ did not like? How would he extricate himself if the affair went badly? Would she hold it against him, if he did?

Lorna gave a slight frown. “No?” Her gaze flitted across his face as she tried to read him.

“No... I mean— My answer is not 'no,' I—” He bit his lip again. “I am trying to learn Clan culture, but fraternization still seems... improper.” That might confuse her, but he hoped it would not upset her.

“Fraternization? Being sibling-like?” She chuckled. “Of course that is proper. We are all sibling-like within the Clan. We are a pack.”

He shook his head a little. “That is not quite what I meant.”

“You are odd.” Lorna put her hands on her hips and frowned, deeper this time. She seemed frustrated with the miscommunication. “I may not offer again.”

Sigurd gave her a half-hearted smile and nodded. “I understand.”

“Very well. Come by, if you wish, Star Commander. Or do not,” she sighed. “ Your choice. ”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which old wounds are opened.

Chapter 26

 

“You seem distracted.”

Sigurd blinked and realized he had drifted off, again. “Apologies, Star Colonel.”

The other man looked him over critically, in much the same way a MechWarrior might inspect a BattleMech. Sigurd smoothed his uniform reflexively. He felt a bit rumpled after last night, but it was probably all in his head. The door to the interrogation room swung open, and Lorna walked in. He tried not to look at her, then tried not to avoid looking at her.

Akela noticed that immediately. His gaze traveled to the her, and then back to Sigurd. He seemed mildly confused about the abtakha's behavior, and the corners of his mouth creased into a transient, somewhat befuddled smirk. It was a little hard to tell what that meant, since Akela's reaction to nearly everything was a smile, chuckle, laugh or grin. It was as if the whole universe and all things in it existed for his amusement.

 _Coyote,_ was the first thing that sprang to Sigurd's mind. _Trickster._

“You defeated the _Centurion_ ,” Akela said, addressing the topic at hand. “You may claim its pilot as your bondsman.”

“Me? I thought Alger felled it.”

“I reviewed the battleROMs. Your shots destroyed the 'Mech.”

“What if I do not want this mercenary as a bondsman?” he muttered. “Can I just hand him off to Alger? It does not matter to me who made the kill.”

“It should!” Akela scoffed. “You seemed ambitious enough during your Blooding. There was a moment when I could tell that you thought yourself beaten, yet you put your _Stormcrow_ back on its feet. And now you do not even exult in your first BattleMech kill as a Clan warrior?”

He sighed. “I apologize, ovkhan. I just... I want nothing to do with these scum.”

“Afraid the mercenaries will attempt to seduce you?”

Sigurd furrowed his brow. “Pardon?”

“You fear that you will be tempted back to what you once were.” Akela narrowed his eyes as a pair of Elementals dragged in the captured MechWarrior. “I do not think that will happen, though. You were never really a mercenary—not in spirit, quiaff?”

“Aff,” he answered hesitantly.

Akela smiled, though it looked a little predatory as he watched the captive intently. “You have always belonged here.”

On the other side of the glass, Lorna shoved the man into the chair at the center of the room. The Elementals held him down and a medtech began administering the drugs. Sigurd felt his own heartbeat quicken and his mouth go dry as he watched. He felt no empathy for the mercenary, just a sudden rush of his own unpleasant memories.

 _It seems so long ago,_ Sigurd thought, _that I was there._

He knew the dates. He knew how many days it had been since the riot, how many weeks it had been since his Trial, and how many months since his capture. Yet it all seemed to stretch into eternity. In the warped time of his memory, it felt as though he had been with the Wolf Clan for years. Conversely, his career as a mercenary had become a mere eye blink. Perhaps Akela was right.

By this time, they had finished prepping the captive for questioning. The man was a bit on the lanky side, with pale skin and a mop of straight brown hair. That was about all one could distinguish, at the moment. The mercenary slouched forward in the chair and hung his head as if it weighed ten tons, which kept Sigurd from getting a good look at his face.

Lorna joined Sigurd and the Star Colonel in the other half of the room, behind the glass. “We can begin whenever you are ready, ovkhan,” she said to Akela.

“Proceed. I shall leave the questioning to you and the Star Commander, while I observe.”

She nodded and tapped the button for the speaker. “Let the record show that this is the first interview with prisoner 81134Y. The prisoner is male, and sustained minor injuries upon ejecting from his BattleMech,” she read from her datapad. “Let the record also show that, during the course of his capture, the prisoner made an unprovoked assault on a Clan warrior.”

“Unprovoked!” the man snapped. He still kept his head down, but his shoulders began to shake as if he were laughing silently.

Lorna scowled and began to reach for the speaker button again, but Akela shook his head. “Just continue,” he advised.

“Aff.” She scrolled through the datapad. “State your name for the record.”

The man laughed aloud now, but did not reply.

“Prisoner.” Her voice grew more firm. “State your name for the record.”

The man shook his head a bit. His arms were restrained quite securely, but he had just enough room to rotate his wrist around and show them two fingers. Lorna furrowed her brow, obviously unfamiliar with the gesture, but Akela's lips pressed into a thin line. He knew what it meant.

 _I wonder where a Clanner learns something like that._ Sigurd glanced over at the Star Colonel, then looked ahead through the glass. His mind was not really on the interrogation. Giving no indication of his thoughts, he began piecing together some of the Clansman's peculiarities. _You seem to know a lot about a lot of things. And you act_ _as though_ _you know a lot about me. Maybe_ _it is time I know more_ _about_ you _,_ _Akela Kerensky._

He almost smirked, but did not let it onto his face. Instead, he frowned deliberately and reached for the microphone switch. They needed to keep things moving. “The sooner you comply,” Sigurd offered, “the sooner we can finish this.”

The man lifted his head quickly, and looked around. He did not laugh or offer any further insolence. That surprised all three of the officers.

“My... name?”

“Yes.” Lorna insisted a third time, “State your name.”

He sighed wearily and hung his head again.

Both Akela and Lorna turned to Sigurd. “He listened when you spoke,” she observed. “You talk to him.”

Sigurd frowned again, but nodded and accepted the datapad from her. “Aff, ovkhan.” He hit the speaker. “Prisoner 81134Y, state your name for the record. We can make this short, if you cooperate.”

The man tugged ineffectually at the restraints and looked around worriedly. He opened his mouth, then fell silent. After a moment's hesitation, he began once more to speak and, this time, followed through.

“My name is Matthew Scott Lewin.”

Sigurd nearly dropped the datapad, but caught it after brief fumble. He collected himself rapidly, and jotted down the prisoner's answer. Lorna began the next question.

With his head up, more of the man's features were visible. He had brown eyes, which were rather anxious at the moment, and a slightly crooked nose. The prisoner had scruffy facial hair, which seemed less like a beard and more like one too many days without shaving. Sigurd studied him intently. Some of the man's features, like the beard, were different, but underneath those aspects was a familiarity he could not deny.

Sigurd began to lose feeling in his fingertips; it flowed into his hands, and then up through his arms. It was not numbness, but simply an absence of sensation. He could not feel his limbs because, at this moment, they no longer belonged to him. Something else was seeping into his body. All he could feel was a slow cinching in his chest, and heat rising deep in the core of his being.

Hatred. He felt _hatred_ , now.

Lorna continued to interrogate the mercenary, oblivious to her subordinate's growing anger. The familiarity of the man's face and voice was undeniable, now. Every time she posed a question, Sigurd knew the answer even before the captive spoke. Homeworld, date of birth, mother, father—he knew all of it. He shuddered in rage.

Sigurd realized suddenly that Akela was watching him with concern. He glanced back at the Star Colonel and took a deep breath. He had to say something. The truth would come out, eventually.

“I know this man.”

For the first time that Sigurd had observed, his commander looked truly surprised. Lorna, too, was startled. She took her hand off the key for the speaker and turned around.

“You know this man?” Akela repeated. “ _This_ man? The _Centurion_ pilot?”

He set the datapad aside and, with some effort, unclenched his fist. “Aff. Although, the last time I saw him, he was driving a _Panther_.” Sigurd closed his eyes and took another deep breath, trying to collect himself. “He goes by the nickname 'Ace.' He was one of my lancemates, and he is a spineless, greedy coward.”

The other warriors simply stared at him in silence for a long moment. Lorna shifted uncomfortably and looked to the Star Colonel for direction. Akela ran his fingers through his goatee meditatively.

“And what would you have me do, Star Commander?”

“Nothing.” He looked through the glass at the captive—the man he had once called a friend. The cinching feeling in his chest returned. “I simply thought you should know I am acquainted with him. And that given the choice, I would gladly see him dead.”

Another long pause. Akela turned back to Lorna, and gave a quick nod. “Continue.”

She resumed the interrogation.

“Will you kill him?” Akela asked Sigurd, keeping his voice to a hush so the microphone would not pick it up.

Sigurd resumed taking notes, though his hands trembled slightly in anger. “Will you stop me?”

Akela let silence be his reply.

 

 

“Hello?” The captive's voice echoed faintly in the interrogation room and jumbled together with Sigurd's soft footsteps.

The official interrogation was over, and the next was not scheduled for another ninety minutes. Both Akela and Lorna had departed, each on various business of their own. Now, only Sigurd and the prisoner, Matthew Lewin, remained.

_Ninety minutes. Plenty of time._

The room was darkened, except for a light above the room's sole chair. From where the chair was positioned, directly in front of the door and facing away, it was impossible for a prisoner to see who entered or exited. Sigurd came to a stop directly behind Lewin, about half a meter back.

“H-hello...?” he murmured again, sounding anxious.

“Hello.”

The man nearly jumped out of his own skin. He began to laugh nervously. “Heh, you gave me a little fright there,” he stammered. “You, uh... takin' me back to the brig?”

“Neg.”

“Oh. Then, uh, what're— What's all this, then?”

Sigurd took a noiseless step closer. “Continued questioning.” He kept his replies clipped.

The mercenary groaned and rolled his head back against the chair. “Aw, fer the love of... Fine! Let's get this over with. My name is Matthew Scott Lewin. My date of birth is March 19, 3047. Cov—”

“Neg,” Sigurd interrupted. He reached over and hit the light switch. “I have other questions for you, Ace.”

Mathew looked up as Sigurd walked around in front of him. The man's eyes widened and the color drained out of his face. He worked his mouth into several different shapes as he tried to decide what to say. “Can anyone...? Is this being recorded?” he finally asked.

“There will be no record of this.”

“I thought... I _knew_ I heard your voice earlier! W hen you quit talking, I started to think it was all in my head—that I was just goin' mental .” He gave another burst of nervous laughter. “Wha— What're you doin' here? Hell, what're you doin' _alive?_ I thought I'd never see you, again!”

Anger surged through Sigurd's body. He tensed his muscles for an instant, restraining himself, then began to undo Matthew's bonds. Outright murder would be frowned upon, but if the man was free to move, who could say that Sigurd had not acted in self-defense? Besides, warriors seldom faced the full penalty for their actions in such cases, if they were even tried for them. He finished with the restraints, then leaned back against the table in front of the chair. “I imagine you would be curious about that.”

Matthew stood, tired of being confined, and studied his face. “What happened to you...?” he asked softly.

“This?” Sigurd motioned to the scars. “The Jaguars. The jungle.”

“Shit.” Matthew tilted his head. “Your ear... Is— is that where you had it pierced?”

“Had. Past tense.” He reached up to his left ear reflexively, and ran his fingertips along the torn helix. It had been a trend within their unit for MechWarriors to pierce their ears for each confirmed 'Mech or armor kill. Matthew had apparently allowed his own piercings grow closed. “You should see what they did to the rest of me,” Sigurdmuttered, letting a snarl creep into his voice.

Now that the shock was slowly wearing off, the man began to take note of his uniform. “I don't understand... if the Jaguars caught you, then... how'd you escape? What are you doing here?”

He had replayed those events in his mind countless times. He would not relive the pain and humiliation again, just to satisfy this man's curiosity. “Suffice to say, I did escape.” He had his own questions. “You got away, though.”

“Yeah. Yeah, we all did.” Matthew slumped back down in the chair, and an expression of guilt wracked his face. “You bought us time.”

Sigurd rocked back onto his feet and leaned down to look the other man in the eye. “And you left me.”

The mercenary shied back from him, and looked away. “No... No, i-it wasn't like that.”

Sigurd grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and slammed him back against the chair. “You _left_ me!”

“No! No, I swear to God! It—”

Sigurd shot one hand forward, wrapping it around Matthew's throat, and jammed his knee into the man's gut, effectively pinning him to the chair. “I have been waiting a long time for this.”

Matthew struggled, but the drugs administered to him earlier had not yet worn off. He was still weak and a bit uncoordinated, but clawed at Sigurd's hands as he tried to writhe away.

“Go ahead. Hit me.” Sigurd grinned savagely. “The more of a fight you give me, the more convincing it will be when I make my report.”

Terrified, he managed to peel back Sigurd's fingers just long enough for one word. “Look!” he croaked. Matthew reached down into his own shirt collar, and grabbed a pair of dog tags on a chain.

Sigurd glanced down at them. The embossing read:

VOLSUNG, S.

He snatched the tags away from Matthew, and yanked him to his feet by his arm. “Where did you get this?”

The brunette man gave a sputtering cough. “From your _Dervish_.” He smiled grimly. “We searched for you.”

Sigurd shoved him into the chair, and looked down at the tags again.

“Me and the rest of the lance... We searched for you. After the reinforcements came in and finally cleared out the Jags, we located their camp. But all we foundthere was your cooling vest, and you'd been missing for months by that time. We... figured they'd dumped you in the swamp.” He looked up, pleadingly. “All this time, I thought you were dead.” The man gave a sad, lopsided smile. “But I kept your tags, just in case I was wrong. Figured you might want 'em back.”

 _I_ _nearly was_ _dead_ _, thanks to you._ Sigurd clutched the dog tags in his fist for a moment, then threw them back at Matthew. “Keep it. These mean nothing to me,” he sneered.

“But—”

“I am Sigurd _Wolf_ , now.”

Matthew turned the tags over in his hands. “I don't understand.”

“What? You can see the Clan Wolf insignia on my uniform, _quiaff?_ ”

“Now, I _really_ don't understand.”

“I earned my adoption into this Clan.” He motioned to his left shoulder, which bore another patch: a gold square with a single red star in the bottom left corner. “I am a Star Commander, in fact.”

Matthew sighed heavily and stood, again. “I don't... I don't understand. How could you— _you_ , of all people—be a fuckin' _Clanner?_ Why the hell would you join them?” He scowled at the floor. “I guess every man has his price, aye?”

Sigurd shook his head. “I chose this.”

The other man began moving his hands anxiously, as though he missed having something in them. “ _Why?_ ” he asked weakly. “Why would you choose this?”

“As you have already demonstrated, you would not understand.”

“Try me.”

He took a deep breath, reining in his emotions, and balled his fists. “I am a warrior. I belong amongst warriors.”

“And you're just gonna do that your entire life? Just kill and destroy? You're a soldier, but you're not a killer.”

Sigurd pressed one fist into his own thigh, trying to keep himself from snapping again. “What would you know about that? I simply acknowledge my nature.”

Matthew reached out tentatively and put a hand on his shoulder. “This isn't you, Sigurd.”

He stood abruptly, and moved back out of reach. “No. This _is_ what I am,” he said defiantly. “And you helped make me this way.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sigurd catches up with an old friend.

Chapter 27

 

It was quiet, now. There was never a moment when everyone was asleep, but activity within the Cluster waxed and waned throughout the day. The present hour was one of the low points in this cycle. Sigurd knew he should probably be sleeping, but he had already tried and found it impossible. He had only lain awake, staring into the darkness and hoping that nothing stared back. He had too much energy, too much anger, to sleep. He needed to vent it on something before he vented it on some _one_. If he could not relax enough to fall asleep, maybe he could simply tire himself enough to pass out for a few hours.

As he approached the gym, he heard the sound of equipment moving. He had expected to be the only one present at this hour. He entered, a little cautiously, and saw that Akela was over at one of the weight machines, doing leg presses.

His boots echoed against the floor, and Akela looked back at him. “Ah, Star Commander. You are up quite late.”

“I, eh, needed to clear my head.” He wondered if Akela was normally up at this hour or if he, too, had been unable to sleep for some reason.

The Star Colonel continued his exercise. “I should not be so surprised. You seem like the kind of person who always needs to be doing something. You remind me of the dog we had in the sibko,” he said with a chuckle.

Sigurd sat down at one of the benches to take off his boots. “You had a pet?”

“Well, it was not  _ours_. Our piloting trainer had a border collie, which he was quite fond of. It was always happiest when it had a task,” Akela explained.

"Such as?"

“Oh, fetching things, guarding the barracks, nipping at our heels to make us run faster," he muttered. "But I am getting off-topic. I meant to ask—how was your, ah, interview with the  _Centurion_  pilot?”

“It was... enlightening.”

“Did you find out what you wished to know?” The Star Colonel finished his repetitions, then locked the weights into place and sat up.

“Not precisely.”

“You allowed him to live. You intend to take this man as your bondsman,  _quiaff?_ ”

Sigurd frowned. “I keep thinking about handing him over to someone else, but I imagine that would be rather insulting to my warriors.”

“Rather.”

He sighed. “I suppose I will make him my bondsman, then. I do not know what else to do.”

“Why so glum? I should think this is an excellent opportunity.”

“What do you mean, ovkhan?” Sigurd stood and began to stretch.

“You feel this man has wronged you,  _quiaff?_ ”

He glanced back at Akela and furrowed his brow. “Aff...”

The Star Colonel gave a wry smile. “Now, you have the chance to make him miserable.”

“Is that how you deal with your enemies?”

Sigurd eschewed the weight machines, and instead moved to one of the striking posts on the other side of the room. He struck at it a few times with his hands, and then moved back to deliver some kicks. Sometimes when he practiced, he imagined leaving a little bit of his anger in the post with each hit.

“Not always. Really, I have few personal enemies. Who was the last one...?” Akela murmured. He reached up and rubbed a little at his forehead. When his hand touched the scar that ran over his scalp, there was a spark of recognition in his eyes. “Ah, yes. Now, I remember the last one. I broke all his fingers... and then, I broke the rest of him.”

 

* * * * *

 

“Get up,” Sigurd growled.

The captive did not move, but remained sitting on the bunk with his knees drawn up against his chest and his arms draped over them. He kept his head down, and Sigurd could just barely see the man's eyes for the shadows on his face. Matthew Lewin stared out into empty space angrily.

“I said,  _g_ _et_   _up_ , Matthew.”

That got a reaction. “The  _fuck?_ ” the mercenary grumbled, scowling harder. He maintained his posture, but lifted his head slightly and glanced back to the cell door where Sigurd stood. “ _Matthew?_  You're calling me Matthew, now? What are you, my mother?”

With a quick stride forward, Sigurd grabbed the man's right arm and yanked him to his feet. He dug his fingers into Matthew's bicep to hold him, as he snaked a bondcord around his wrist.

Matthew looked up at him with bleary eyes. He had been in and out of interrogation several times, and the drugs had not yet cleared his system. “Aww, you got me a friendship bracelet! How thoughtful of you,” he gushed mockingly. His penchant for sarcasm was clearly unaffected.

“You know what this is, quiaff?”

He snorted and jerked his arm out of Sigurd's hand. “Yeah, yeah. Of course, I do. I'm your slave, now.”

“The bond is not slavery.”

The mercenary shot Sigurd a severe look, then suddenly began to laugh. Matthew paced around the room anxiously.

“I'm dreaming. Ha! This is all just a really bad dream. Like that time I dreamt I was driving an  _Ostscout!_ ” He laughed again, sounding increasingly disjointed. “You're dead! You're dead, and I'm feeling guilty about it. And it's been too long since I had a cigarette. But it doesn't matter! Because I'm gonna wake up, have a smoke, and watch the bloody Clanners out there—” he flailed his arms for effect “—eat hot lead when the DropShips' guns come online!”

Sigurd frowned. “Your ships are gone.”

“Yeah, nice try. You are a figment of my overactive imagination, and you're trying to make me feel guilty. The ships haven't left.”

“I never said they left. I said they are  _gone,_ ” Sigurd replied. “All that remains is a crater.”

“I don't believe you.” Matthew narrowed his eyes. “Even if I'm not dreaming, why would I believe what  _you_  tell me? I'm a prisoner! You'd say anything to get me to comply or reveal information.”

“You are wrong about that. You may not like what you hear, but I will only tell you the truth. We do not employ lies and guile, like the InnerSphere.”

“We?”

“The Clan.”

Matthew let out a strangled groan and pulled at his hair. “This is insane.  _I'm_  insane. I'm not dreaming—I've just finally lost it. Make sure my straight-jacket is well-tailored, okay?”

Sigurd leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms. “Let me explain this to you slowly, so you will understand. I am a Clan warrior, a Wolf, now. I am not your friend. I am your bondholder. If you were Clan, you would know that serving out your bond is the only way to regain honor. Since you are not Clan, and have clearly never had  _any_  honor, this might be difficult for you.”

A snort of contempt was the man's only response.

“I am not yet sure I trust you with any real tasks. So, we will start with some more questions.”

“Shit. This again?”

“I am not going to hurt you,” Sigurd replied, taking a datapad out of a pocket on his uniform. “Unless, of course, you give me a reason. We will start with your history, since...” He hesitated, feeling a brief resurgence of anger, and chewed his lower lip. “Since I last saw you. Answer truthfully, and things will go a lot easier for you.”

“Oof. Let's see...” Matthew sat down on the edge of the bunk. “Sold my  _Panther_ , kicked around in the Rasalhague for a while, picked up a smoking habit... Oh, and I'm in debt up to my fuckin' eyeballs.”

“You need to stop saying that,” Sigurd muttered as he took notes.

“What? Eyeballs?”

“No. You need to stop the vulgarity. It is not acceptable in the Clans.”

“It isn't? Shit.”

Sigurd merely furrowed his brow.

“Uh— I mean... Sure. Sure, I'll work on that. But don't expect any fuckin' miracles, okay?” the mercenary groused. “It's a habit.”

“Let us continue... You said that you sold your  _Panther?_ ”

That was not something that would particularly interest the Wolves. All people, property and equipment within a Clan belonged to that Clan. There was no individual ownership, only the allocation of certain goods and resources to certain individuals for certain spans of time. Therefore, the fact that Matthew Lewin had switched to a  _Centurion_  would be of little import to Akela Kerensky or anyone else. Sigurd knew what it meant to own a BattleMech, though. Few MechWarriors would willingly part with a machine they personally owned, outside of dire circumstances. 'Mechs were expensive and, even now, could be rare. It therefore came as a great surprise that Matthew would sell his  _Panther_.

“Oh... That?” The man looked a little worried. He shrugged and quickly assumed an air of indifference. “Had to cover my travel expenses, somehow.”

 _Hiding something, Ace?_  Sigurd thought to himself. Matthew was usually good at bluffing. He was, however, a wreck at the moment—to put it gently. The question had caught him off-guard. Sigurd knew all his tells, in any case. “You sold your BattleMech, yet you claim to be in debt?”

“Like you wouldn't believe,” he groaned. “I didn't get much on the sale, and then I picked up the  _Centurion_. So, you know, that was a good four mil, plus interest.”

“Tell me about your current unit.”

A sour look passed over Matthew's face. “Kent's Krakens? Not much to say. Buncha nutters. Should've called themselves Kent's  _Crooks_  or Kent's Crazies,” he scoffed. Matthew's gaze fell, and he added grimly, “Only lunatics take on the Clans.”

“Only lunatics take on the Clans.”

“And that makes you... what?”

That prompted another scoffing noise. “Believe you me, I already learnt my lesson: I don't fight Clanners if I've got any say in it. But I didn't know they were talking with the Traionites when I signed on.”

“I doubt breaking your contract was a serious deterrent. Why did you not leave?”

“I couldn't! I thought this was gonna be like any other job, but they got their hooks in me real good when they sold me the  _Centurion_. Kent fuckin' owns me.”

Sigurd ignored his swearing. “Then you do not like your newest employers, quiaff?”

Matthew shook his head.

“Would you provide us information about them?”

“Ha! Not a chance, mate.” Matthew grinned. “Kent is one of the slimiest mercs I've ever met, but I'd take him over the Clans any day of the week. Besides, it's not like I'm getting a better deal with you lot. At least I was only stuck with Kent 'til I worked off my debt.”

Sigurd took notes, and Matthew regarded him in silence.  _What now?_  he thought, tapping his stylus against the datapad.  _I had my hands full before,_ _just trying to deal with my Star_ _. Now, I have to make sure Matthew stays in line,_ _too_ _. When I was a bondsman, Akela said I was his responsibility._ _Which_ _means that Matthew is mine. He could become a liability,_ _and_ _I cannot afford that._  He glanced up at the other man.

“Have more questions?” Matthew looked away as he said it, trying to appear disinterested, but his eyes narrowed in nervous anticipation.

 _When did you leave Bloody Steel? And why? Does anyone know where you are?_ There was no use in asking further questions. He would only get more deflections, half-truths, and lies from the man, right now.

Aloud, Sigurd replied, “Neg...I am trying to decide what to do with you.”

Matthew arched his eyebrows and smirked. “Catch-and-release? Tag me on the ear and send me back into the wild?”

“Do you really want me to turn you loose on  _this_  planet?” Sigurd asked incredulously. He raked one hand back through his hair. “I still do not trust you to work, or even behave like a civilized person, but I supposed I have to give you some kind of chores.”

“Oh, don't put yourself out on my account.”

“If you do not work, you do not  _eat_. We have no room for dead weight, and that includes bondsmen.”

“Well, when you put it that way...”

“I shall see if the chief laborer can find something for you to do. Until then," he said, stepping into the hall, "I suggest you think very carefully about how difficult you want your life to be from this point on.” Sigurd closed the door, and locked it.

He was still angry, but he had burned off most of the more destructive urges during last night's exercise. He no longer felt as though he might lose control and attack the other man, but he did not entirely discount the possibility. The feeling of rage had engulfed him so rapidly, yesterday. It was like slipping below the quiet surface of a pool, caught in a sudden undertow. Even now, something whispered to him gently, murmuring of pain and rage and vengeance.

There was a temptation to find some way to make Matthew Lewin suffer as he had, but gradually, he began to decide against it. He was not above hurting the traitorous mercenary, but there were more important things on which to concentrate his energies.

 _Ace is only a distraction. I must be patient_ , he told himself.  _I must focus on what lies ahead._


	15. Interlude 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Raisa has answers.

Interlude II

 

Raisa's fingers wandered over the surface of her old laser rifle, every pit and nick in the casing more familiar than those of her own skin. She sat on a dune, cradling it in the crook of her left arm, and began to clean it exactly as she had done every day for the last eight years. While it had begun as necessity, it had gradually transformed into ritual.

There was a sort of comfort to be had in small things like this, and comfort was not easily found on Rotwelt. The sun and the sand and the razor-edged wind, were a constant source of irritation. She missed rain, snow, and the color green. Raisa stretched out one leg and scuffed her boot against a scrubby patch of red grass. All the plants of this world were that same hue. They ranged from bright vermilion to deep oxblood or even ruby, but they were always, _always_ red. She had never gotten used to that.

Peals of laughter and splashing caught her attention, and she looked up. Sigurd and his cousins were playing tag in the shallows of the river bank. Her first impulse was to call him back, tell him not to go too far, but she stopped herself. Instead, she picked up her things and quietly moved closer. This was the first time she had seen him happy since they got the news.

As she resumed working, a long shadow crept up beside her, accompanied by the sandy crunch of footsteps on the parched ground.

“ _Wie_ _geht's_ , _Schwester?_ ”

Raisa bristled, but didn't bother to turn her head. _Sister. Now, that you want something, I am “sister.”_

“ _Schwester?_ ” Elise Volsung raised her voice from a timid murmur to a normal speaking volume. “Raisa...?”

“Fine.”

“ _Was_ —? Oh. Ah, do you... need anything?” she asked. “Would you like something to drink? We have water, cider, beer—”

“No.” Raisa took a drink from her canteen. Tersely, she added, “ _Danke_.”

“ _Bitte_.”

Elise remained standing, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other, and tucked a strand of clay-brown hair behind her ear. Raisa continued cleaning the laser rifle and did not offer to speak.

“The food is _fer_ —” Elise stalled out mid-sentence, muttered under her breath as she tried to find the right word, then resumed. “Ready. The food is _ready_. Jonas and Alya are waiting.”

Raisa nodded wordlessly, and began reassembling the rifle, while Elise went to gather the children. They waded back onto the shore when she called them, sopping wet and reluctant to end their games, but encouraged by the promise of supper. The children began to walk back, then suddenly broke into a race over the dune, laughing and teasing each other. They were all young still, and the world was a much simpler place for them.

Raisa stood to follow, and sudden electricity arced down her spine. Not pain, so much as a sudden, visceral isolation. She sucked in a deep breath through her nose, feeling incredibly hollow and frail—or perhaps, merely remembering that she had always been that way.

The sensation passed as suddenly as it came, and left an ache of regret in its wake. After all this time, her nerves still searched on occasion for the BattleMech that should augment her body. Sighing, Raisa looked down at her hands and tried to will them to steadiness. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and exhaled slowly. A faint headache persisted at her temples, but she could ignore that more easily.

When she opened her eyes again, Elise was staring at her.

“Are you—?”

“It's nothing,” Raisa said, and forced a smile.

Dinner consisted primarily of dumplings, blood soup, and the awkward conversation of people trying to avoid a particular subject. Alya, Elise's wife, carried most of the discussion and kept to lighter topics. The river was flooding nicely, which ought to make year's harvest a good one. There was a lot of construction going on in the east valley—probably a new power station. The Himuras were moving to Wasserdorf, and wasn't that too bad?

Elise tried to participate, as well, though it was obvious that her heart wasn't in it. Jonas Volsung ate in sullen silence, and only joined in when the topic of football came up, but even that failed to hold his interest very long. They wanted to talk about their brother, but the wound was still too fresh. In part, Raisa thought, they still could not believe he was dead. After all, there wasn't even a body.

Eventually, Alya seemed to realize that her efforts at cheering everyone up were wasted, and she let the burden of conversation fall to someone else. Surprisingly, it was Jonas who spoke next.

“What are you going to do, now?” he asked, looking at Raisa. The color and set of his eyes was much like his brother's, but had none of the same kindness. “You going to stay?” He bit into a fat _weizen-fresser,_ sending bits of its shiny exoskeleton splintering onto the table.

Raisa glanced down and nudged at one of the _fressern_ on her own plate. She picked it up, ate it in one bite, and chased it down with a swig of red-gold beer. They were good protein, but she had never acquired a taste for insects. “I am going hunting.”

“I don't mean that,” Jonas said. “You staying on Rotwelt? Or no?”

“Where else would I go?”

He shrugged and took a long sip of his whiskey. “Where do you Valkyries call home?”

“The Greater Valkyrate no longer _exists,_ ” she replied.

“You think it has been conquered?” asked Alya.

Raisa stuffed another _fresser_ into her mouth to keep from saying something she might regret, and tried not to gag on the taste. Alya was probably the smartest one at the table, but she was prone to asking very obvious questions. Raisa spoke carefully to keep the condescension out of her voice. “Of course, it has. Just like _every other_ realm in their path.”

“They have not come here, though.”

“Yet.”

“But—”

“Who do you think shot down the bloody DropShip?” asked Raisa, acid seeping into her voice.

Alya and Elise exchanged a worried glance.

“It's good that you're staying,” Elise said. Her words sounded unsure, and Raisa could not tell if it was insincerity or just the woman's unsteadiness with English. “It is... good.”

“What about the 'Mech?” Jonas asked abruptly. He poured himself another whiskey, and leaned forward in his seat. Elise reached out for the bottle, and he shot her a searing glare.

Raisa set her jaw. She had not been looking forward to this discussion. “What _about_ it?”

“You should sell.”

She and Jonas stared across the table at each other. This happened too often, and she kept letting it. She never had learned to when to refuse a challenge. Arguing with Jonas when he drank never resulted in anything one could call a victory, but walking away seemed too much like admitting defeat. Even after all the failures, she still had too much pride for that.

Jonas closed his eyes and massaged his temples in frustration. “That BattleMech will gather dust, now. Even in the shape it is, it could sell for millions of C-Bills! Think what you could do with the money.”

“You mean, what _you_ could do with the money.”

“That 'Mech belongs to the Volsung family,” he muttered.

“Which Raisa is part of,” Alya said gently. “Come now, there is no need to be so adversarial.”

“Adfur—?” Jonas squinted at her.

“ _Kontradiktorische,_ ” the woman amended, sheepishly.

“ _Warum_?” Jonas sneered. “ _Sie ist nicht unser familie._ ”

Elise beamed a tight, nervous smile at Raisa. Then to her brother, she muttered, “ _Ruhig sein,_ Jonas. _Wenn du weiter sprichst scheisse, sie wird nicht verkaufen_.”

“ _Nicht erzählst mir was tun!_ ” he protested. “ _Sie ist nur ein verrückt Auswelter—_ ”

Raisa shoved her plate aside and stood up. It was all she could do not to shake with anger. They underestimated how much of their conversations she understood. She was not perfectly fluent in Rotwelt's peculiar creole, even after all her years spent here, but spoke it well enough to know what her in-laws were saying.

“You know nothing about me.”

“I know enough. But I have one question. ” Jonas stared back at her, his hazy stare suddenly clear and white-hot. “Did you even love him?”

Her anger suddenly gave way to sadness, like a seawall crumbling into the sea. “No,” Raisa said, much more evenly than she expected. “I did not love Kurt. But I did care for him.”

Jonas slammed his glass down on the table. “And now you take everything he had!”

“You are wrong about that, _bruder._ I am only the custodian of Kurt's estate,” she explained, and slung her laser rifle over her shoulder. “Kurt left everything to Sigurd.”

 

 

The sun had nearly set, and constellations were beginning to peek out through the black veil of sky in the east. Raisa looked up at the stars as they walked—something she had not done in a long time—and wondered if she could see her own homeworld from this planet. She had never figured out how to locate it in the sky, which made it seem all the more inaccessible.

She abruptly returned her gaze to the horizon. No going back.

“ _Mutter_...” Sigurd tugged at her sleeve plaintively. “Why did we have to leave so soon?”

Raisa slowed a little. “Because...” There was no good answer for that, and she trailed off. Kurt was always better at this sort of thing. After a moment's thought, she forced a surge of confidence into her voice until it felt genuine, and tried again. “Because it's twilight.” Not the real truth, but not a lie, either. It would have to do.

The boy furrowed his brow.

“Twilight is the best time to hunt.” She gave him a canny smile. “All the cold-blooded animals are sluggish, right now. And the warm-blooded beasts wait until it is completely dark to come out. You and I have the advantage.”

“Oh.” He nodded, but his attention was waning. Tears began to brim in his eyes.

She looked down at him, and a torrent of thoughts flooded into her mind. All her mistakes, all her failures. She cursed herself for her cowardice. Cursed the medic for not looking at all the metal and plastic he had cut out of her. Cursed Kurt Volsung for not leaving her to die eight years ago. Cursed him for leaving her, now. Everything had unraveled so quickly. She wanted to scream. She wanted to explode. She wanted, just for a moment, for everything to _stop_.

Beside her, Sigurd sank to the ground. He drew his knees up to his chest, buried head in his arms, and began shaking softly—crying, or trying not to. A sigh hissed out of Raisa's lungs, and her shoulders dropped. Just as swimming did not make one a fish, giving birth had not made her a mother. Kurt had always been better at this.

She plopped down on the sand next to Sigurd, and put an arm around him. It had always been an awkward gesture for her, but it came more easily now.

“ _Gori, gori, moya zvezda,_ ” she sang quietly, as she held him. “ _Zvezda lyubvi, pri— privetnaya..._ ”

Raisa stumbled through the folk song, half-remembered from her own childhood, and gradually, the boy's crying stopped. He raised his head, drying his eyes with his sleeve, but would not meet her gaze.

“You know,” she said, reaching down to the side of her boot, “I think you are old enough to have this.” Carefully, she withdrew her knife, and handed it to Sigurd.

He rubbed at his eyes again, then took it from her gingerly.

Raisa pulled the knife from its scabbard, and hooked that into his belt. “Hold it firmly,” she instructed, and moved his fingers to wrap around its hilt properly. “Now, when we find a nice, fat _sandwal_ , you can help me gut it.”

“Ew!” He wrinkled his nose, and his expression cracked into a grin. “Really?”

“Mm-hm. It is about time you learn to hunt, I think.” She patted his shoulder, smiling, and got up.

Sigurd turned the knife around in his hands for a moment, examining the blade.He sheathed it, and stood. “You'll be with me, won't you?”

“Yes. For now.”

The boy cast her a hurt look. “Why not always?”

“Because,” Raisa said gently, “all we really have is ourselves.”


End file.
